


Explosions

by fallingrenegade



Series: Traditions [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: -pained sigh-, M/M, Memorial Day, Twincest, and ptsd, it sadly wouldn't be Memorial Day without mentions of horrific PTSD, mentions of death and torture, psychological torment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingrenegade/pseuds/fallingrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lazy, serene Memorial Day Ford wanted doesn't go as planned. But Stan is always there trying to find a solution. Even if he's the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You about done? I’m starvin’ over here. I think I just lost a pound.”

The disgruntled Stan smacks his protruding gut in emphasis.

“If you helped me prepare dinner we’d be eating by now,” retorts Ford, cutting up the last of the cheese into edible cubes.

As he works his lover simply bitches from behind, refusing to make himself useful. Ford doesn’t mind as much as he lets on. Their relationship has become a lot breezier in the last months. Now their bickering was more for conversation than any other purpose. They were more comfortable with each other, and in being so, more comfortable in their own skin. It was like old times, only moving was a pain and erections were more difficult to achieve. Otherwise, Ford felt like a teenager again.

A pesky hand reaches for a cube, attempting to sneak past Ford’s keen eyes. As his brother goes to grab a snack, a threatening knife stops the tempted hand; sharp blade faced away from him, just in case. Stan looks over with raised eyebrows before chuckling lightly. He wasn’t threatened. Not even close. If Ford ever hurt him they’re both sure it would be on accident. And likely not physical.

Regardless, Stan decides to play it safe and nibble on something else instead.

“Come on, babe. You’ve been givin’ me the cold shoulder all day. Ya gotta give me _something_ to put in my mouth.”

“No, I don’t-”

Ford gulps as teeth scrape against his earlobe, lust shooting down his belly and instantly pooling in his groin.

When Stan sucks the lobe into his mouth, hands wrapping automatically around the smaller waist, Ford tenses, frustrated. Apparently cheese wasn’t the only thing Stan was hungry for. If there was one thing Stan loved more than food, it was sex. And, apparently, Ford.

“Either go take a cold shower or help me finish,” complains Ford, barely attempting to shake him off. His lover had been ruddy all morning, now spanning into late afternoon. It was starting to get on Ford’s nerves, though he refuses to admit it’s partly because Stan’s stupid sexual puns are actually working.

“Oh, I’ll help you finish-”

“ _Stanley_ ,” warns Ford through gritted teeth. As much as he normally wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay, they needed sustenance, and Ford was set on whipping up a simple yet healthy meal for them both. Stan had been doing quite well lately and he wasn’t about to mess that up. Besides, Ford currently had other things on his mind than sex.

“Ugh. Fine, mood-killer,” bitches Stan. “Yeesh. You’d think you’re a prude, Sixer, but I know better.” Stan pokes his ribs, likely just to piss him off. “You’re a modern day Don Juan.”  

The wink Stan sends him is entirely ignored.

“Yes, yes.  How about you carve up the watermelon? I’m almost done cutting the cheese.”

When Stan opens his mouth, eyes sparkling, Ford almost growls.

“If you make one more childish joke I _will_ stab you. Don’t tempt me any more than you already have, Stanley. I’m not in the mood.”

“Wow, I can tell. What a romantic,” bites Stan, though the cheeky smile that’s thrown his way is far from sarcastic.

That’s when the gears must start turning. Ford wants to throw a wrench between them but it’s too late. “Hey, if you stabbed me wouldn’t that be considered penetration-?”

Stan barely dodges the rolled-up paper towel thrown at his head. When he gives his seething brother a questioning look, Ford has to look away. With a shaky sigh he places the cheese cubes bit by bit into a small, plastic container for later usage. Stan really needs to get the hint. Now was _not_ the time.

“Come on. A napkin? Seriously?” chides Stan. “Ya can’t do any better than that?”

“It’s a paper towel, and it was the only non-lethal weapon within my reach,” explains Ford, anger subsiding quickly. He wiggles the knife in his hand, Stan eyeing it warily. “Just be glad I didn’t use _this_.”

Stan waits for his brother to set down the knife and turn his way with slumped arms crossed before choosing to speak.

“Somebody’s cranky today. I think sex is _exactly_ what you need, big bro.” For a second Stan seems to ponder the man standing rigid and unusually awkward before him. Then he huffs good-naturedly and sends Ford a caring look, arms crossed, accidentally wedging himself further into Ford’s heart. “Why’d I ever start datin’ you again?”

“Because you love me, I suppose.”  

“Oh, yeah,” Stan says through a teasing smirk, prowling closer again now that the waters are questionably safe. “That’s right. Almost forgot with the attempted murder an’ all.”

Ford gives his lover an automatic smile that can’t be contained even if he tried. Sometimes Stan had a way of sneaking in like fire ants and creating a colony on Ford’s soul. 

Stepping forward, strong arms wrap around Ford’s middle, pulling him close. He allows the impromptu embrace, letting his own hands settle shakily on Stan’s broad shoulders with a deep sigh. How could he resist? He needed all the support and gentle touches Stan would give him. As much as he complained, Ford wouldn’t have it any other way. Food could wait a minute more. Stan was much more important, even if he was in a teasing mood that drove the testy Ford up a tree.

He lets himself relax into the touch, chin resting on Stan’s shoulder.

It had been a nice idea to have a calm, lazy day together. At least, that’s what Ford wishes they had been having. They wouldn’t be allowed to have peaceful days much longer. The kids were coming back soon and with children came unexpected adventure and responsibilities. As much as they were looking forward to needed family time, losing their freedom would be horrible. It was a good thing they had already christened practically every surface in the shack. As a couple where the only safe place to be out-in-the-open was in the privacy of their own home, the invasion was weighing heavily upon them. It had led to several unwanted discussions about how to handle the situation, and just like new parents, they completely disagreed on a plan. Stan wanted practically everyone to know that his brother was on his arm, but Ford was much more adamant.

They decided to go along with Ford’s logic for sake of safety, though neither was actually happy with the decision. Like with many of life’s choices, the middle ground was exceptional yet not possible. One of them had to compromise. As usual, that someone was Stan.

“If I wanted you dead you’d be dead by now, Stan. Trust me.” Ford lets out a deep breath, happiness swirling around them as peace overtakes Ford’s mind. As always, Stan’s presence was a godsend. After the day he’s had he craved the calming embrace only Stan could ever give. Ford holds him closer, face nuzzling against Stan’s neck, feeling unusually protective. “Your life is safe with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mister I Did Things, Terrible Things. We all know your stories of the other side. I know you wouldn’t hurt me like ya had to them.”

The blue of Ford’s eyes swirls dark. Soul becoming a treacherous ocean storm, Stan pushes him overboard without a second thought. A frightened Ford scratches and claws at Stan’s shirt, desperate to be saved while thunder booms through his ears. The sound is Stan’s voice from the other side of reality, attempting to right a wrong. But Ford doesn’t hear a thing.

It’s too late.

A gasping Ford gets pulled under. Tentacles latch onto skin, sucking all life from his conscience. They wrap around his throat, painful memories flooding in as he fights hopelessly. Burning salt water infiltrates two heaving lungs.

He’s suffocating.

Tense and tortured, the peaceful façade crumbles at their feet, showing Ford cruel reality once more. Ignoring the panic couldn’t stop it now. One mention of his past sent his mind bulleting back there.

Stan’s offhand words are a horrible mistake. They cannot be taken back.

As much as Stan’s tone had been nonchalant, his eyes are now gravely serious. The wretched anguish must show because Stan holds his rigid figuring, drowning alongside.

He’s much too aware of the nightly terrors Ford’s had to face. The horrors from the multiverse never left. They never would. His actions were necessary to survive, but could never be undone. Some days it was hard for Ford to even dredge out of bed. Today was one of those days.

The horrific memories haunted every waking moment, usually in the background waiting to leap out like an unseen, nocturnal panther and rip him to shreds. Other times it was all Ford could think about, over and over again like a stuck record. If not for his will to keep moving and creating he’s not sure he’d ever leave the warmth of their bed’s solace. The biggest reason to overcome the pain –ignoring the black, charred feeling overcoming him– was to spend the days alone with Stan.

Now everything seems… wrong.

Ford sucks in a breath, expecting bile to force itself up. Unable to do anything but stand there uselessly, he bites down as hard as he can without snapping teeth from his gums. It hurts, but it’s better than letting Stan see how truly affected he is. Dammit. And he had been doing so well.

When his lover starts rubbing his back in a silent apology for bringing up harsh memories, Ford has to gulp away the never-healed emotions. The embrace suddenly reminds him of all he’s been forcing away. That panther gnashes at his opened, gnarled chest, organs exposed. Everything comes slamming back full-force, knocking away the psychological protective wall, consuming all concentration.

He had woken up in a bone-shivering sweat that morning, lungs full of burning fire as he screamed himself awake. As always, Stan had been there to sooth his brother’s broken, aching soul. Strong arms held Ford like precious porcelain while hands skated over the numerous ugly scars littered across his shivering back. The tender caress usually calmed him instantly. Without his patience and unwavering care, Ford doesn’t know how he would manage back in this dimension.

He hopes he’ll never have to find out.

Not wanting to have a legitimate conversation –both knowing it would cause nothing but more unnecessary heartache– Stan leans in for a quick peck on the cheek and soft pat on the back before unwantedly pulling away. Guilt consumes his rugged face, yet Stan’s wonderful at pretending to be brave.

“Ya want some wine? Maybe if I get you drunk you’ll let me take advantage of ya.”

Both know he entirely doesn’t mean what he says. Though he’s attempting to smirk, underneath it all Stan is worried. Though distraught himself, Ford is grateful they’ve dropped the subject and Stan’s attempting to lighten the mood the only way he knows how.

When his brother tensely turns away, Ford relaxes. He hates that he doesn’t understand why.

As Stan reaches up for two wine glasses, Ford forces away the constant panic and focuses instead on the steadily-growing excitement hidden far below. For anyone else it would have been a colossal task. Thank god Ford was always excellent at ignoring his own emotions, much like Stan. Together they were a broken, matching pair.

He had been looking forward to that afternoon for some time and intended on enjoying their solace regardless. Memorial Day wasn’t a holiday Ford normally celebrated, but Stan had been excited for what was to come and it started becoming contagious. They’ve never done anything like this before and the scientist was anxious to see if his project would be a dazzling success as planned.

“Food ready yet?” asks Stan though he already knows the answer, pouring them some white wine while Ford watches, glad to be pleasantly distracted.

“It will be if you ever help,” quips Ford, getting back into their bickering groove they knew so well. It was peaceful that way. Being serious for too long always frayed already raw nerves.

“Why’d I do that? What’s in it for me?” implies Stan with a sultry smile.

“Food, Stanley,” deadpans Ford, refusing to play this game. Even though he desperately wants to, he can’t. Not now. Nothing felt right.

For once he decides to act like the big brother he is and ignore their shared carnal wants for actual needs. Food should logically be the priority, surmises the scientist. Besides, there’d be time for what Stan had in mind later.

Ford shivers, not knowing why. Simply thinking about making love gives him goosebumps, yet not in the normal, pleasant way that Stan always gave. Instead, the intimate thought makes his skin crawl. The feeling is mortifying and the idea of what it might mean even worse.

Being nothing like his over-imaginative twin, Stan seems to think over the possibility of food and shrugs nonchalantly. Ford watches Stan take out a knife –bigger than his, like it was some kind of contest– and surprisingly get to work.

“Fine, I’ll help you, but ya owe me for this, sweetcheeks.”

Though Ford doesn’t know how that’s at all possible, since he did most of the work, he’ll let the comment slide, just this once. As long as Stan was helping, Ford doesn’t mind owing him a favor. Besides, he knows the type of payment Stan usually wanted was always fun for both of them.

Again, Ford shivers.

+++++++

“I don’t understand. That has nothing to do with mathematics.”

Sighing, Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re sitting across from one another on a picnic blanket on their porch, legs outstretched alongside, almost touching. The younger twin’s slack position far from imitates his current long-suffering mood.  

“Come on. Seriously? It’s a joke, Sixer. Don’t you get it? It’s math.”

“It doesn’t sound like any form of math _I’ve_ ever studied.”

“Yeah, cuz you’d never get to the multiplying part since you’re, ya know…” Stan’s explanation dies away, apparently realizing by Ford’s face it was a losing battle. Fingernails scratch over grey stubble as Stan grumbles, Ford watching in confusion. “Ugh. Forget I even tried. I thought it’d make you laugh. Guess I was wrong.”

After a beat, Ford nervously chuckles in response, though he’s aware he really doesn’t understand the so-called joke whatsoever. But Stan was trying so he could too. He had twelve PhD’s for god’s sake. The brainiac is pretty sure he understands the fundamentals of simple mathematics more than the man who never got the chance to finish high school. He never was good at figuring out his brother’s attempt at jokes, but he can play nice for Stan’s sake.

“Oh. Wait. I get it now. Hah! Very funny, Stan.”

Apparently his lover could see right through the obvious lies. As unsurprised eyes roll, Stan scoffs.

“Don’t pretend you get it, Stanford. It’s just a stupid joke I found in one of my books. I figured you’d like it cuz it has to do with nerdy stuff, but I guess I was wrong. I know you don’t understand, but it’s not gay so I guess you wouldn’t.”

Stan leans in and lightly punches his arm with a pestering smirk while Ford frowns over the words. He runs them over, flattening them to death with a steamroller as he contemplates their meaning. _I don’t understand. ‘Add a bed, subtract the clothes, divide the legs, and hope you don't multiply’? It_ sounds _like an equation, sure, but what do beds and legs have to do with-_ Words finally clicking, his eyebrows rise.

“Oh,” he says simply, realizing his mistake. Those blue eyes widen as the embarrassing mental image catches up to him, much more vivid than he wishes. “ _Oh_.”

Pleased, Stan chuckles at his lover who should realize by now he could spin anything sexually.

“Man, Ford, you need ta get out more,” laughs Stan as he bites into a grape, cheeky expression frustrating as he finally one-ups his genius brother.

“Perhaps I do,” admits Ford distantly, thinking over the stupid joke and wondering how many other things Stan had said in their lifetime that had gone right over his head.

As the supreme mind whips in and out of mental traffic, focused eyes automatically scour the landscape for danger.

What he finds is anything but. The orange afternoon glow was actually quite peaceful.

Ditching the futile attempt, Ford lets tranquil nature soak in. It’s been a while since they’ve had a moment together this serene. Being outside like this reminds Ford of the good old days of swinging without a care in the world, thinking about the future like it was all planned out, with Stan always at his side. As though they had a clue.

How naïve adolescents are.  

Ford glances over at Stan, his brother none the wiser as he looks out over the shaded wilderness as well. He can’t help but smile, earlier thoughts discarded while he watches Stan lazily pop grapes into his mouth. The normality of it all was soothing.

The old yet clean blanket is too warm under Ford’s legs, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not like they have anything pressing to do. The picnic had been his own lovely yet poorly-planned idea. Ford’s ass was already quite tired of sitting on hard wood, and it would likely be sore later. Admittedly, it was worth it just to watch the sun sprinkle through the trees. Even more important was the handsome view before him.   

They couldn’t ask for better weather to spend their last few days in solitude. It was a warm evening even for late May- the perfect time for a picnic. The bugs weren’t out full-force quite yet and they had the place all to themselves. It was practically perfect. At least, it should have been.

Ford pops another cheese cube into his mouth, savoring the strong, sharp taste against his tongue. After learning he was a terrible cook, Ford decided simple fruit and cheese was a wonderful idea since he was the type who could somehow burn water.

As he takes a sip of white wine, flavors mixing beautifully, he watches the man before him lazily throw grapes into the air and catch them in his mouth. Ford smiles around his food, Stan catching him and grinning back. It feels so much like their childhood days that if Stan didn’t have silver hair he might even believe it.

“You wanna try?” asks a hopeful Stan.

“Do I wanna try what?” counters Ford, not sure what he intended. He had been so caught up in the moment he forgot to pay attention to sounds. Had Stan been talking before? If so, he hadn’t noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Feed me,” states Stan, shaking a bundle of grapes in case Ford still doesn’t understand.

When he hands over the fruit, Ford’s eyes shoot up. Apparently Stan sees his mind lying haphazardly in the gutter because he shakes his head. For once Stan’s isn’t lying beside his.

“Not like that, lover-boy. I’m not some prince or somethin’. Though if you _want to...”_ After watching his unsure reaction Stan must realize that fleeting thought likely wasn’t going anywhere any time soon because he sighs, defeated. “Just throw ‘em to me, Poindexter.”

Somewhat disappointed yet refusing to believe so, Ford breaks off a grape and throws it toward Stan’s mouth. He catches it with ease, chest puffing with pride as he smiles around the sweet morsel. Admiration pours over him like summer rain. Ford adores seeing Stan truly confident in himself. It was a rare occurrence.

“Heh. Good one, babe. Keep goin’.”

Happy to be of service, Ford continues throwing and Stan keeps catching, making a game of it.

Finding Stan to be awfully good, Ford starts to make the task more difficult, throwing them to the side or up too high. A few bounce off his chin or smack against a large nose and fall to the floor, amusing them both to no end. Stan eats them anyway, much to Ford’s chagrin.

When Ford throws the last one a little too fast it makes impact with Stan’s glasses and bounces away. The lone grape rolls off the porch and into the dirt, Stan adjusting his glasses while watching it go with a disgusted expression.  

“Eh… I’m not eatin’ that.”

“I thought you were going by the ten-second rule?”  

Stan makes a face which Ford finds illogically amusing. It’s not like their porch was more sanitary than the ground.   

“That’s one thing I’m _not_ puttin’ in my mouth. Gompers can eat it.”

Ford looks down, food completely gone. He’s surprised to find he was actually disappointed. Being a kid again had been fun.

He looks up to see Stan intently watching him with a small, adoring smile. It makes Ford’s aching heart flutter.   

Finding a natural lull, for a second they just look at each other. Ford cradles a half-full glass of wine, both leaning back against their own hand and enjoying the view. This time the beauty they find isn’t in nature.

Smiling slyly, the ever-ruddy Stan starts getting ideas. Curious, Ford watches as he toes off his shoes. Not knowing what to expect, Ford cocks an eyebrow as a socked foot brushes his thigh. When the digits start methodically rubbing his upper leg, soft and teasing, much too close to an even more sensitive area, Ford tenses.

“You in the mood yet? We got time ta kill.”

“No. Are you ever _not_ in the mood?” bites Ford, hating how easy it is resorting to anger instead of blatant truth.

Seemingly unaffected by the cross attitude, Stan’s big toe keeps rubbing circles against Ford’s pants. It’s surprisingly enticing. He’s not sure how an act so small could always cause such a strong reaction.

“It’s not _my_ fault you’re a tease, ya know,” winks Stan. Then his toe stops, foot leaning against Ford’s leg instead. His face becomes uncomfortably serious. “I always want you, Ford. You know that, right? I’m not ashamed of that. Even… even if you are.”  

Gulping, Ford watches his brother’s tender, exposed expression. By now he knows it’s true. It’s a real boost to his ego knowing he’s the cogs that make Stan’s watch tick. Still, seeing Stan’s hushed blue eyes lock onto his, unwavering yet searching for the invisible wall separating them, makes it all the more real.

Looking away before he can’t trust himself, Ford sets down his glass with a deep sigh. They couldn’t do this. Not right now.

“It- it’s almost dark enough. We can start setting up now, if you’d like,” Ford offers as a desperate excuse. He wants to tell Stan he’s wrong. His lover deserves to know the truth. He’ll _never_ be ashamed of their relationship, no matter what people might say. None of them mattered; only Stan. That was the problem.

Going to stand, Ford knows he’s upsetting his surprisingly patient lover. A queasy coldness creeps in like frostbite. Ever since his nightmare all he can think about is the pain of it all; every attempt to quash the emotions fruitless. Usually Stan was his best distraction. Sadly, not everything can be solved so easily.

When Stan had held him, consoled him that morning, it was nothing new. Every time Ford had a horrific dream, Stan was there. He made everything better. _Always_.

The difference was, this time Stan couldn’t. Ford hadn’t informed him that the dream wasn’t entirely typical. Instead of his own life on the line –as it had been in reality– it was Stan’s.  

He had watched his brother being tortured, heard the blood-curdling screams as they cut and branded his writhing body. The smell of burning flesh invaded his nostrils, bile painfully rising. All he could do was watch as Stan’s anguished cerulean eyes begged for help. Stan needed him and he was _useless_. That normally beautiful, husky voice screamed and pleaded for Ford to do something. _Anything_.

Whole world in danger, Ford struggled and fought as hard as he could, desperate to save him. Wrists on fire, Ford dug and clawed at the rope, fingernails split and bleeding. He didn’t care about himself. No one mattered but Stan.

When he finally broke free of the restraints, wrists raw from pulling at the tethers, Ford ran. Feet pounded desperately across the barren desert, hot sand assaulting his nostrils. He had to get to Stan. His brother needed him.

Running, Ford reached for his gun, but nothing was there. Panicking, Ford looked into Stan’s frightened, childlike eyes.

That’s when the nightmare truly began.

Instead of escaping through bloodshed as Ford had actually done, there was an ear-piercing scream. Ford sucked in a horrified breath, legs wobbling. Nothing but sand entered his lungs.

The sound had come from Stan.

“ _No!_ ” choked Ford, soul on fire.

Heart shattered, Ford dropped to his knees at Stan’s struggling side. Blood gurgled from Stan’s mouth, spurting over huffing cheeks. His face stared up at Ford, surprised and betrayed. The suns dimmed over the horizon.  

Everything became red.  

“Stanley?” pleaded a small, naïve voice.

Stan tried to reach up for Ford, to speak his last words into his ear. His arm fell slack at his side. Ford leaned down, listening for Stan to speak. All that came out was blood. Then he stopped breathing.

His brother’s lifeless body lay in a pool of scarlet blood, motionless. Two fingers went to Stan’s neck, checking desperately for a pulse. He was frigid. An expression of fear and disappointment was forever etched in those strong features.

Breathing labored, Ford’s lungs ached. Everything was wrong.

Desperate, Ford pulled Stan close, shielding him from further harm.

“Stan?” he asked in pitiful denial.   

It was too late. There would never be an answer. They had shot Stan before his very eyes. There was nothing he could do. Those beautiful blue eyes, once so full of life and love, were now cold and grey. All Ford could smell was something akin to spoiled lunchmeat as rigor set in. Bile rises to Ford’s throat, body limp.

Stan was gone.

Ford had failed him.

“No,” he had repeated over and over, world shattering like a pixelated screen all around them. “Please, Stanley, wake up.”

He wiped the blood off Stan’s cheeks yet all it did was smear over his freakish hand. Dead eyes stared up, unmoving. Ford whimpered.

“Don’t do this to me, Stan. _Please_. I love you. Wake up. Wake up!”

Ford shook the lifeless corpse, hating the unnatural way his body slumped, soul forever gone. As he pleaded, desperate and broken, the world changed. It was no longer barren and warm. Now everything matched Ford’s heart: cold and bitter.

Choking out tears, Ford brushed the hair from Stan’s forehead. He planted a tender kiss there, hating the feeling of cool skin as grief stabbed his heart with a corkscrew and twisted.

Everything was wrong.

Buzzing in his ears –the ring of a fatal gunshot echoing through the mindscape– drowned out the sounds of the whole world laughing at him. It didn’t matter. Holding his lover’s cold body in shaking hands, Ford’s world was already gone.

When he had woken up screaming, Stan had gripped him tight, fending off unseen evils with an affectionate embrace.

“Shh. It’s okay, babe. You’re safe. I gotcha,” Stan had shushed, body warm, strong heart beating against Ford’s bare chest.

Feeling Stan in his arms, no longer cold with rigor and soaked in blood, somehow still alive and mumbling sweet nothings in his ear, Ford went rigid. He was literally shaken. He had watched his brother die. Again. This time much more permanent than a memory gun, even if it was just his own mind playing cruel, sadistic tricks.

For a long time Ford stared off into the distance, body in this dimension but mind far, far away.

Eventually Stan shushed him back to sleep, but not before Ford realized that if something ever happened to him he would well and truly be lost. What if one day he woke and Stan was no longer beside him? What then? Would life even be worth it anymore?

Their time away from each other was troubled but _nothing_ compared to the harsh panic gripping Ford’s heart when he thought about losing Stan forever. Death was permanent. Especially for two men who weren’t so sure of an afterlife.

Panic hinting that it was about to forgo knocking and barge itself right in, Ford pushes away the unwanted emotions. Logic told him it was just a dream. Nothing would ever come of it. It was just old and new fears rolled into one horrible, rearing nightmare. Stan didn’t need saved. He was fine. His lover had a case of blue balls but other than that was quite peachy.

Even so, Ford was carrying his gun, just in case.

Ford chances a glance back, watching as Stan frowns at his absence. Though he tries desperately, there’s no escaping the pang of guilt at walking away. Stan deserves an explanation for his off behavior but Ford wasn’t ready to give one. Any other day they already would have rolled around in the hay. Now Ford wasn’t sure if he ever could. The genius was afraid that if they became intimate right now he would break, spilling forth all those illegitimate fears and leaving Stan with the mess he had inadvertently created. Of the two, Stan was the more emotional. He would accept that logic wasn’t always applicable. He’s sure he would understand, yet he shouldn’t have to keep sweeping up more glassy shards of Ford’s broken, fragile heart. He had been doing that all their lives. He never deserved that responsibility.

When Ford goes to speak his voice falls short. Nothing comes out. He wants to assure his lover there’s nothing wrong that won’t pass on its own. But how can Ford say such a thing when _he_ doesn’t believe it? Losing Stan would be losing himself. He’s much too aware of that now. They share the same genetic material. They started as one single organism. He can’t fathom life without him, especially now after all they have created together. If that ever happened…

Ford beats his mind like an old rug. He can’t keep doing this to himself. Death takes whomever it chooses. Unless he attempted to be Victor Frankenstein, there was no hope for immortality. When Stan was gone, he would be gone forever. All Ford could do was pray to a likely non-existent god that their deaths would be as close as their births. Neither could handle losing the other for any longer.

Watching Stan grunt while carefully standing dusts Ford’s mind the rest of the way. If they did what they initially intended maybe it would get Stan’s mind away from sex and Ford’s off his own shortcomings. It was a longshot but one he was willing to attempt.

As Stan takes his rightful place at Ford’s side, shoulder lightly grazing his own, a chill runs through a straightened spine and down twelve fingers. They were barely touching and all Ford could do was imagine Stan’s cold, dead eyes staring up from a carved, rigid corpse. Ford fights the urge to vomit.

Teeth grinding, Ford looks hesitantly over at his unsuspecting brother. Inside he feels desperate but hopes he doesn’t project such an emotion. If Stan gets suspicious he’ll ask a hundred questions and Ford can’t handle the good-cop routine.

When Stan glances over, eyes a gorgeous, sparkling blue and very much alive, tension is the only thing that dies.

“You okay?” asks Stan, looking uncomfortable. Ford figures he’s afraid of what the answer might be, and even worse, the reason.

Finally relaxing, Ford allows himself to pitifully smile.

“Better now,” he admits, leaning gently against Stan’s shoulder. He keeps him upright, face scouring and unbelieving. After a while he must be satisfied by the answer found because he gives a small nod and “hmph” before wandering back over the landscape, glad to be Ford’s rock again.

“Good, cuz if there’s a problem, ya need to spill the beans. I can’t read minds, Sixer. If there’s somethin’ rattling around in that giant brain of yours you gotta get off your chest, I’m here, alright? You can tell me.”

Relief fluttering in, Ford gives his lover a growing smile even though he’s not looking his way. His little brother was always looking out for him. He doesn’t deserve such a man.  

“It’s nothing. I… I’ll tell you later.”

“I’ll hold ya too it,” ensures Stan. His tone is forceful enough that Ford has to blink.

Without asking, Stan’s arm goes around his shoulder, pulling him close. That’s when Ford panics. There was always a great connection between them; stronger than most could comprehend. Usually it’s amazing. Now it feels dangerous. It’s like he’s on the battlefield again- friendless, alone, fighting to live, feigning to be emotionless. Only this time he has everything to lose.

Pulling away quickly, Ford lets in a sharp breath. Stan instantly suffers a pained look, probably thinking he did something wrong. Ford can have none of that. This is all _his_ fault. Everything always is. He has to do something, quick.  

"I-it's getting dark," suggests Ford, knowing Stan would take the hint. As expected, the distressed expression fades, becoming instead one of hesitation and mild excitement.

"Heh. You're right.” Stan pats his back, likely hoping at least that small touch won’t be thrown back in his face. Gladly for both of them, it isn’t. “Ready to blow shit up?"

+++++++

They had been working on the firework display all week. Well, Ford had been tasked with all the careful details and scientific calculations while Stan just told him to create lots of colors and loud noises. They might possibly catch the woods on fire and piss off the fire brigade in the process, but it was a risk they were willing to take. Since Ford deems himself a true professional, it was going to be a decently-long show. Fireworks were what Stan wanted and that’s what he was going to get. When it came to Stan, Ford didn’t half-ass a thing.

Besides, it’s been years since Ford has seen proper fireworks. They always remind him of their patriotic birthday. No one knows how to sadistically recreate PTSD-inducing, gunshot-like noises for veteran soldiers quite like Americans.

Before, Ford hadn’t been concerned about the noise. Guns had never prompted that kind of reaction before. Now he was _really_ worried. What if the sounds were too similar to the bullet piercing Stan’s heart, the one that tore them apart? It didn’t matter that the instance didn’t actually happen. To Ford it was painfully real.

What if he has an emotional breakdown in the middle of their porch? Stan doesn’t deserve to see that. Ford never had one before, choosing instead to push down his problems and focus on solving other peoples’ instead.

Still, he doesn’t trust himself. Not after his hands shook so violently he could barely use the memory-eraser gun almost a year back. He had taught Dipper how to control his emotions, but when it came to Stan, it just couldn’t be done.

"Ready?" he forces out instead, attempting to ignore his problems nonetheless. It was a Pines’ family trait.

Grinning ear to ear, Stan rubs his hands together in childlike anticipation.

"Heh. You bet! Light 'em up, Poindexter."

Ford clicks the button, watching the cart stationed in the large patch of grass in their back lawn. Fireworks start shooting off one by one, loud and commanding. As they explode in the humid night’s air all Ford sees are rainbows.

Fingers tickle at his own after a moment, a silent plea. Ford instantly relaxes, heart fluttering as a smile naturally takes over. Seeing his work come to fruition puts him in a slightly better, more pliable mood.

A sure hand slides into Stan’s, six fingers enveloping five. He hears Stan let out a shaky, thankful sigh beside him. From his peripheral he sees tension melt like snow in spring. The large hand squeezes Ford’s hand in a treasured embrace. The feeling is more than mutual.

They watch in comfortable silence, Stan's sweaty hand firm yet gentle. The fireworks boom and spray across the sky, bass vibrating loud in their ears. They’re not in awe like the days of old yet still respectful of their glory.

Fingers still perfectly slotted together, Stan rubs Ford’s thumb with his own. Ford has to admit it actually feels pleasant. It was caring yet innocent. He could handle that.  

When a particularly complicated, colorful design blows across their entire vision, Stan whistles.

“Damn, Ford, I’m impressed. You really went all out, huh?”

“I did it for you,” he admits softly.

Stan’s eyebrows rise without another word, glancing longingly over at his lover. Ford doesn’t notice.

Since they were born on a day that was synonymous with fireworks, Ford supposes _one_ of them has to have a soft spot for the fleeting, scientific masterpieces. Stan always did love loud noises and exploding rainbows shooting off in the night's sky.

That thought gives Ford an idea that he hopes is considered amusing, though he’s afraid he’ll have to explain himself as Stan did.  

“It looks like our sex life,” Ford says hopeful, attempting to make Stan laugh. It usually didn’t work as intended.

This time his lover looks quizzically over, taken off guard.

After a moment he chuckles, shaking his head slowly though proud of the attempt, and squeezes his hand to show it. Unlike his brother, Stan always knew what he was getting at. They were finally sitting in the gutter together.

“Hah. Not bad,” says Stan, throwing his brother a needed bone. “See? You _do_ get sex jokes. As long as they’re gay.”

Ford can’t help but laugh nervously, unoccupied hand scratching a sweaty neck.

“Heh. I try. I’m not exactly innocent, you know.”

“Yeah, I made sure of that,” winks Stan, grin salve to a wavering heart.

A warm summer breeze rushes over Ford before he realizes the wind is entirely calm. Surprised, his eyes widen. He couldn’t be having this reaction. Even when Ford’s mind didn’t want Stan, his heart and body always did.  

Stan must sense the change of tension because his hand releases Ford’s. Though disappointed at first, Ford’s mood quickly sharpens when an arm wraps around his waist, hand splaying over his abdomen. Ford’s eyes bug, surprised to find his lower half reacting. The weather isn’t the only thing that’s hot.  

 When he looks over Stan is looking downward at his sinful hand, intentions obvious.

“Stan?” asks a nervous Ford though he gets no verbal response.

Getting frisky, the hand moves slowly south, over the now impossibly hot sweater. Ford has half a mind to stop him, but his brother looks so enamored he just can’t.

“Stan?” his voice repeats urgently.  

Finally, his brother looks up. Relief is quickly destroyed as a very capable hand cups his crotch, sending all thoughts flying. Lower half pulsing, Ford’s eyebrows shoot up. Cerulean eyes watch Ford’s surprised expression, crow’s-feet at the sides as Stan smirks. The devilish hand starts to rub, palm creating a wonderful friction that he can’t get enough of. Ford grits his teeth, eyes burning. Despite himself his cock grows. Nothing could stop him from wanting Stan. Not even himself.

When Stan’s hand slides upward under the constricting sweater, Ford can’t believe he’s actually disappointed. Feeling skin against his own feels amazing, yet a voice in his head tells him it’s something he doesn’t deserve. If he couldn’t protect his lover even in the dreamscape, what good was he?

Underneath it all, Ford knows it isn't just the dream itself he's struggling with, it's their own mortality. Their birthday is coming up. Another year closer to death. Ford knows he has until he’s ninety-two. But how long does Stan have? Would he be forced to live a third of his life without that cheeky, calming presence?

Grief punches his heart, bruising it instantaneously. He could never last that long. Not now. The only reason he had before was from childish anger. Things were _much_ different now.

As Stan’s hand slides up his sweater, playing with hardening nipples, Ford gulps. How could he ever live without the man he loved? There was no reason to worry about the unknown, but that's what Ford specialized in. What he would do to have Stan's lazy attitude about finding answers right about now. He would have to make do with his twin’s surprisingly good example. Ford was having an existential crisis while all Stan really wanted was sex, food, Ford, and to blow shit up. The anxious genius wishes his own desires seemed that simple.

Not in Ford’s battlefield mind, Stan smiles hopefully at his brother, stepping over all possible landmines. Fingers rub over his ticklish abdomen, playing over the hair of his treasure trail before dipping low.

“Stan,” starts Ford, voice too high, having no set destination in mind. He’s much too distracted.

“Come on, Stanford. Don’tcha want me?”

Ford could lie, but what was the point? The longer Stan chips away at his castle the bigger the chunks of falling rock become.

Worrying at his lip, Ford knows it’s useless. He’s a goner.

“Well, yes, but-”

“But, what? You want me, I want you. It’s simple.”

Ford _entirely_ disagrees with that last statement.

"So, whattaya say? Wanna make our own fireworks?" Stan smiles slyly, wiggling silver eyebrows.

Walls crumbling despite his best efforts, Ford sighs. Though he knows it’s safer to keep his distance, Stan is his biggest weakness. How can he resist that bad boy charm? Or the hand so close to his cock he could almost feel it wrap around him?

"Do you ever stop thinking about sex?" bites Ford, though his edge is quickly being sanded down as his interest grows.   

Worries aside, Ford didn’t go to all that trouble just to go inside and never enjoy his handy work. They have a show before them. They can make their own later.

"Why would I? It’s a beautiful night. My boyfriend’s hot. We’re all alone...” Stan wiggles his eyebrows, soft fingertips intentionally tickling his lower abdomen. Then the deliciously frustrating hand slides inside his pants, palm pressing against the most intimate part of him and rubbing hard.

Ford’s teeth clench, pride and love rising, among other things. It’s a dangerous mix.

His mind stutters as he grows in Stan’s devious hand, excitement pulsing through his cock.

Ford drudgingly starts climbing out through caved-in fears. It will be a tough battle against nature, but if it would make Stan happy, he would do anything. Even if it hurt himself in the process.

"Fine,” he agrees, regretting his answer instantly, as he usually does everything. Especially when Stan’s hand leaves his pants and his decision doesn’t seem so intelligent anymore.

He quickly turns to leave before changing his mind, expecting Stan to be in tow. They needed to get this over with before the want subsided and blood rushed back to his brain.

A hand stops the fleeing man, surprising the assumptive genius. 

“Where do ya think _you're_ goin'?" breezily asks Stan, coy tone of a man with a devious plan.

Ford frowns as he’s being physically turned, wondering why he’s suddenly being manhandled. He looks Stan up and down, questioning look devouring his features.

"I… I thought we were gonna have sex,” worries Ford, wondering how he could have misread the obvious signals.

His twin looks through him, waiting for Ford to catch on. That might take all night.

Realizing so, Stan rubs his shoulders slowly, smile turning tender yet lustful. The infinite love barely contained behind his eyes frightens Ford.

"We're gonna do it out here, Poindexter,” Stan says simply, as though that isn’t an absurdly dangerous idea.  

Frantically looking around in case anyone heard, Ford’s heart races.

"Stanley, y-you can't be serious!" Ford chides, voice a half whisper. It was bad enough he agreed to what he was afraid might end in horrible failure. Now he wants them to be alone, in the woods, at night, naked and exposed? How did Stan always know the _exact_ way to destroy him?

"'Course I am.” Stan’s eyes go low, playing tricks on Ford’s impressionable mind. “Doesn't it sound _fun_?"

Grinning and obviously aroused, Stan steps closer, Ford automatically drawing back in fear. His brother’s happiness deflates, as does Ford’s cock, sudden panic rising above his throat.

"What, possibly getting caught having sexual relations with my own _brother_?” snarls Ford, frightened eyes scouring the battle zone for predators. “Honestly, no, it doesn’t. I- I don’t wanna do this anymore, Stan. Please don’t make me.”  

"Come _on_ , Stanford," Stan drawls, tired of fighting to be let inside. "Nobody’s makin’ you. It’s just me.”

Stan’s hands squeeze; gentle yet firm thumbs stroke his arms. Ford looks down before glancing warily up into sad blue eyes. What he sees melts his heart.

“No one’s gonna see us, Ford. Let me do this for you, okay?  Live a little. You admitted ya need to get out more. What’s more out than this?”

Stan lifts his arms, indicating wide open nature around them. Ford looks at him like he’s crazy.

“We both know that’s not what I meant.”  

“Doesn’t matter. It'll be fun. _Trust me_. It's risky.” Somehow Stan’s eyes dim lower than the night sky, making Ford’s mouth go dry. “Doesn't that get you _hot_?"

He does have to admit the weather isn’t the only thing much warmer than it should be.

Ford looks around outside the shack while Stan shoots him bedroom eyes that are impossible to ignore. Heart pounding relentlessly, Ford gulps. Nature starts kicking its way in, shoeing his blood down south. Still, what little mind power that’s left refuses to give in.

“Stanley, I-”

His brother puts both hands back up, stance strong, almost commanding.

“Before you say what I think you’re gonna say, hear me out. With the fireworks we can be as loud as we want, right? There’s nobody around for miles. We can do whatever the hell we want. No one’ll ever know.” His lover takes a step further, making Ford’s eyebrows raise as tempting lips rest near the crease of his mouth. Hot breath melts the ice built around Ford’s heart as Stan looks right through him. He sighs shakily, automatically basking in the warmth that is Stan. “Hell, we’ve done it everywhere else. Why not here?”

Stan has a sound point. It’s their house, their yard. It isn’t public property. If anyone showed up they'd be trespassers and Ford had just the weapon to scare them off. Besides, they were in the middle of nowhere. Who would come around out of the blue on a holiday?

Ford chews on his lip, knowing his brother had solid logic for once. As Ford watches his twin, all giddy excitement and desire barely concealed, it's decided. There was only ever one option, after all. Seeing Stan look so eager, pupils wide and wanting, pushes him over the deafening anxiety.  

"Alright, I- I'll do it," Ford agrees through assaulting fear. "Bu- but if we see headlights we're stopping."

“Deal,” spouts Stan, rubbing his hands together like the risky gambler he is. He’s beyond pleased that he’s talked Ford into it. Honestly, underneath it all, so is Ford.

Even though the dangers of getting caught is a mixed blessing. And they would be entirely exposed. And unprotected. And vulnerable.

As Stan holds Ford’s slender waist, warm hands sliding up under his sweater, wet lips kissing his stubbled jaw, the anxious twin stares mortified through the night air. His mind is a ticking bomb, Stan unknowingly holding the plyers. One wrong cut and…

Ford gulps hard, chest rising and falling painfully as Stan’s palms slide lovingly over scarred skin. His keen perception senses danger. This is a mistake.

Suddenly, Ford isn’t relieved anymore. He smells gunpowder.

And it’s not from the fireworks.


	2. Chapter 2

“Stanley?” starts Ford, wretched smell of danger whirling around them. His throat closes like a deadly allergic reaction.

There’s an overpowering need to keep Stan safe. He wants to throw up a barricade, shield them inside the shack and never leave. Then they would be secure. Then everything would be okay.

“Yeah?” his brother answers, mistaking the urgent tone for something much more appealing.

One look at Stan’s wandering hands and pleased expression, Ford knows going inside isn’t an option. Ford had been tortured more times than he could count on one abnormal hand. That he could live with. But no one hurt Stan and got away with it. Especially not himself. If he had to be tensely watching for danger while Stan enjoyed himself, so be it. He would endure all horrid anxiety just to make his brother happy.

“N-nothing.”

Undeterred, his lover slants their pelvises together, pressing their lower bodies close. Ford can’t help but gulp at Stan’s barely contained desire tents against his crotch. Lustful hands slide down his waist, settling on rigid hips. Stan chuckles, thumbs sliding over the waistband of Ford’s pants as his own hips slowly gyrate against him.

 “Heh. Is that a gun in your pocket, bro, or are ya just happy to-?” Suddenly his brother stops all movement, reality catching up to him when the bulge he cups isn’t an erection. “Son of a bitch!”

Stan quickly steps back as though he can’t get far away. White teeth grit; Ford hating the way his lover’s entire body shrinks away. He can’t let Stan leave. If his brother is out of his sight then he’s also out of his protection. Ford won’t allow it.

“Is that- is that actually a gun?”

Ford nods, pulling out the miniature weapon from a carefully concealed holster. He’s surprised Stan’s wandering hands hadn’t noticed it before now.

His frozen twin looks back, eyebrows squinting in suspicion.

“Why the hell are you packin’ heat? Is there somethin’ I need to know about, Stanford? You… you expectin’ company?” his paranoid brother asks urgently, eyeing the weapon, suddenly just as nervous as himself. “Cuz if you are…”

Stan makes two fists, ready to defend at a moment’s notice. Regardless the level of danger, Stan will always protect his nerdy brother.

Ford shakes his head, setting the dangerous device by their feet. Stan’s clenched fists becoming slack now that he knows they’re not in any impending danger. At least, none that’s outside of Ford’s mind.  

“It’s just a precaution,” reassures Ford, taking a step forward.

“Sure,” Stan forces out after a beat, eyebrows furrowed. As usual, Stan can see right through him.  He’s the exact opposite of convinced.

After a moment Stan’s hands resume their actions, attempting to pick up where they left off. They cautiously glide over his waist and under his arms. To Ford it feels more like a cautious pat down.

“You hidin’ anything else from me, Sixer? A shiv? A needle? I’m not gonna get stabbed by something weird, am I?”

“No, my atom ray is all I’ve got on me.”

Stan blinks. For a few long seconds his brother stares metaphorical weapons into his eyes. It seems like he’s regretting this decision as well.

Then he must internally shake himself off because he bites his lip but otherwise puts on a forced normal face. Ford imagines it’s for his own sake and he hates it. Nothing is as it should be and he despises that Stan has to pretend.

“Come on,” says a surprisingly soft voice, five fingers slotting between six. Ford looks down at where they’re connected, pulse quickening. He imagines Stan can feel the thrumming heartbeat through his fingers.

His lover leads him toward their laid out blanket without a word. Though it’s only several feet away, it feels like miles.

Panic rises but Ford gulps it down. He must stay alert. Slamming anxieties beating his chest won’t keep them safe.

“Get comfy,” gently urges Stan, head motioning toward their picnic area.

For a second the genius stares down at the blanket, quizzical expression engulfing him.

“Why don’t we use the sofa instead?” Ford indicates the old couch just to their right- the logical place to have sex. “It would be easier on both of us.”

Stan looks at him, really looks. Those darkened blue eyes are so open and pulling that Ford trips and falls in.

“Who said I wanted easy?”

Stan steps forward, hands slipping Ford’s jacket off without protest. He lets it happen, captivated by the eyes that mean more than they’re saying. Though Ford would never come to that conclusion, if Stan wanted easy then he _surely_ wouldn’t be dating Ford.

When those captivating eyes leave his, Ford has an overwhelming need to get their attentions back.

Before he can do so, Stan is tugging up on his sweater in askance. Though he easily could push the want away, Ford was tired of fighting. He knew the crutch had to be taken away some time. Though his legs weren’t healed, he wanted to walk again.

Hating the idea of losing sight of their surroundings for even a millisecond, Ford puts his arms into the air, hoping Stan will strip him quickly. Giving him a funny look, Stan eases the wool contraption over his head, letting it fall next to the jacket. Nothing unexpected happens, yet for the life of him the overly-paranoid Ford isn’t any less adamant.

He knows he should explain himself before Stan inevitably asks what’s wrong again, but how? If Stan knew about the deciphered implications of the dream he would likely give him an even more concerned look and tell him “You think too much”.

Though far from inaccurate, Ford can't help himself. He’s a thinker. That's what he does best. Sometimes, instead of brilliant ideas and intellectual thought, his emotions creep in and jam all the good cogs, leaving only the bad well-greased and spinning double-time. Sometimes it was necessary. Regardless, it was unwanted. His fears are ridiculous. The scientists knows this. They are both excellent at taking care of themselves. Stan had gone through hell without him and came out barely scathed.

Yet his deepest fear would not subside. All day Stan had practically begged for sex. It was the first time Ford had shot down his advances since shattering the platonic barrier and making love. Stan knows something is very wrong, Ford is sure of it. Instead of prying, as he usually did, his brother was trying to force his way into Ford's mind as nicely as possible. All Stan wanted was to be intimate. That should be a nice thought, dammit.

Biting his lip, Ford surveys the area. Nothing could be heard over the fireworks shooting off at unspecific intervals. There’s no movement in the woods, no lights indicating fairies or smells warning of trolls. They were safe. At least, they should be. No one could come back into this dimension anymore. He had made damn sure of it. All they had to worry about now was despicable humanity.

When his gaze falls back to his brother, Ford’s lungs go out of commission.

While Ford thought, Stan had been simply watching. He hadn’t forced him to open up. He hadn’t asked  why Ford was so adamant to do something they’ve done dozens of times. Instead, his lover had waited for the storm to pass, wanting to dance together now that the rain has ceased.

Breath gone, Ford stares with a slack jaw. A hand lightly grazes his forehead, smile forming as Stan gazes upward. Two large fingers tuck stray grey hair behind Ford’s ear in a movement so delicate and sincere it could make a weaker man cry.

When Stan’s knowing eyes look back, deep into the dark pit that is his soul, Ford gulps hard. The love in his eyes is bittersweet. _This isn’t just about sex to him_ , realizes Ford with an aching heart; _it’s much more_.

Finally seeing that getting in his pants wasn’t Stan’s true intention, a serpent’s head is chopped off. Stan’s unwavering drive helps slash away at the rest like machetes through a thick, overgrown jungle, slowly freeing him from the bonds of irrationality. Here was his twin, in all his misfortunes and glory; the boy he’d seen grow into a man and become almost everything to him. It was Stan, plain and simple. All he wanted was his brother, in any and every way he could have him.

Suddenly, Ford doesn’t know why he was ever afraid.

He wants to make love to this man.

An emotion he can’t describe magnetizes them together, dam walls crumbling. Water rushing in, Ford cups Stan’s cheek, stepping close. His brother’s eyebrows raise, cheek moving against Ford’s palm as his smile hesitantly grows.

Ford leans in, lips dangerously close to Stan’s. Breath whispers against his face, even more humid than the night air. The only light illuminating their actions is a soft glow from inside and spurts of bright light from the lawn. Ford doesn’t notice the loud, vibrating sound of a motorcycle flying down Gopher Road, or the bats fluttering in fear of fireworks overhead. They don’t matter.

All he sees is Stan.

A pink tongue licks over plump lips, wetting them for Ford’s enthrallment. Smiling wider, Ford’s thumb rubs calculated circles over the rough five o’clock shadow.

Stan stands perfectly still, waiting for Ford to make the first move. Grateful to set the pace, Ford presses gentle lips against Stan’s. A sharp spark of connection alights between them, dragging him down in the best of ways. Ford hadn’t felt that much electricity in months.

His brother lets out a small, happy moan, arms automatically pulling him flush.

Reveling in the embrace, Ford moves their lips together, loving the feel of stubble against his own.

His other hand wanders up Stan’s chest, barely able to squeeze between them they’re so close. He pulls off the tie, letting it fall against their stomachs. Sure fingers slip the top button from the loop of Stan’s dress shirt, wild grey chest hair begging to be carded through. He feels lips uptilt against his; Stan infinitely pleased that Ford’s finally allowing himself to do this. The idiotic genius has to admit he is too.

He undoes all the buttons he can reach before meeting Stan’s soft stomach. Once allowed access, Ford’s hand slips inside the shirt, familiar hairy chest greeting six fingers.

Letting out a happy sigh, Ford lets his digits card through the unruly hair, tugging slightly. He’s pleased to hear his brother wheeze, feel Stan grow against him. Knowing he was making his lover hard by only touching his chest sends flutters up Ford’s legs, pooling in his balls.

He presses their lover halves closer, hardness meeting its double. The only things keeping them from being even more connected are their pants.

Want filling the space of all other emotions, Ford steps back. Stan looks instantly afraid that Ford will continue the cycle of pulling away. Giving his own attempted sly yet lacking smile, Ford undoes Stan’s belt and tugs. His brother raises an eyebrow, stripping motion quickly catching up with him.

“You’re, uh, gettin’ a little handsy, babe. Want me to help with that?” Stan reaches toward his own pants, eyes dark.

“I’m more than capable of getting you naked, Stanley,” Ford informs simply.

Still, the words make Stan practically salivate. His hands move to Ford’s trousers instead, fingernails inadvertently digging into his hips while Ford undoes the button. Feeling Stan’s tented erection against his knuckles as he unzips the fly makes Ford’s nerves sing.

Anticipation surging, he pulls trousers down along with boxers in one go, anxious to feel Stan’s large, naked body against him. Every drop of blood seems to be pulsing into his cock as he watches Stan’s own bob free, large and unashamed. Ford licks his lips at the delicious sight, Stan grinning ear to ear while watching his lover look so aroused.

“Like what you see?” asks Stan, relaxing for the first time that day, though Ford would never know as much.  

Ford simply nods, unable to speak.

Body thrumming with arousal, Ford reaches out a hand. It wraps around his brother’s hard cock, pulling upward. Stan bites his lip, eyes fluttering closed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” pants Stan as Ford’s hand strokes his cock. “Why does that feel better than usual?”

Ford isn’t entirely sure, and for once he doesn’t care to think. All he wants is Stan.

His hand leaves the pulsating cock, accomplishing nothing but teasing relentlessly.

Leaving him without contact, Stan quickly snaps the button of Ford’s pants, tugging trousers and briefs down without hesitation.

Instead of touching Ford, he attempts to step out of his own pooled clothing while simultaneously slipping off his jacket. When he almost trips, Ford holds him with a steadying hand.

Seeing the potentially dangerous desperation, Ford undoes the rest of Stan’s shirt and pulls it down. They lift each other’s undershirts in unison, each other’s mirroring arms getting in the way.

Both giggling nervously at their failure, Ford allows Stan to lift his off first before doing the same.

Once their clothes are cast aside, Ford realizes with clarity what is happening. He’s standing outside, completely naked and tremendously aroused, about to have sex with his own twin. The thought should be horrifying. Yet, surprisingly, Stan was right- it’s invigorating.

Not wanting to waste time, two large arms wrap around his naked form, lowering them both to the blanket. The wood is hard but the softness underneath makes it bearable. Even without the blanket, Ford wouldn’t care. Seeing Stan above him, just visible enough in the humid night, Ford could be lying on nails and he would barely bat an eye.

After getting settled, Stan lets sinful hands wander. Feeling his brother’s skin against his is a godsend. He marvels in the sensation as Stan kisses his neck, hands and mouth slowly moving downward.

Wet lips slide down his body, sucking on his nipples, drifting over the flat stomach and down to his hip. Stan nibbles the protruding bone, eyes looking up to Ford for a reaction. Interest spreading, Ford watches downward. Lungs heave as Stan’s mouth settles on his spread leg. Lips kiss over the sensitive inner thigh while both hands slide up his stomach, thumbs tweaking Ford’s nipples. Electric lust spasms through his body as blood pulses strong. The lovely assault makes him mewl, bad thoughts shushing.

It feels like heaven.

Stan’s mouth moves closer and closer to his most sensitive area until finally a curious tongue licks a stipe between his balls. The wet tongue continues up his length, settling on the head of his cock. Stan’s hand strokes up and down his shaft, tongue playing unfairly against the extremely sensitive tip. Moaning, Ford lifts his hips, wanting to be sucked inside Stan’s extremely capable mouth; engulfed in the warm wetness.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs internally, though accidentally whimpers aloud instead.

When Stan huffs with agitation, hands leaving his chest, the tension he wasn’t aware of falls there instead.

Ford looks down, head spinning from being suddenly derailed and wondering what the fuck was happening.

“Stanley? Why the hell did you stop?” he says a little too harshly, untended urges making him snap. When he sees the look of failure Stan gives him, all aggression subsides. _Oh, no._ “Stan? Is… is something wrong?”

It takes a moment for Ford to spot the problem with the picture before him. When he does he can’t help but feel embarrassed. Though he was aroused, his penis was practically limp.

"I should be askin’ you the same question. Do you even want this, Ford, or am I the only one?” asks Stan, voice much too quiet. He won’t even meet his eyes. He sits on his hind haunches, all contact severed. Ford wants to scream, but not at all at his lover. “I know you’ve been pushin’ me away all day, but I… I thought you finally got past whatever the hell was botherin’ you.”

So did Ford.

"What’s the deal? You act like you’re gettin' hard but you're not. You’re not pullin’ a When Harry Met Sally on me, are ya? Cuz if you’re just pretending to want me then I- I don’t wanna do this either.”

His brother sits further back, feeling miles away. Seeing Stan pull away mortifies him. Knowing that this is all his fault, _again_ , Ford starts to wonder why he even tries. Stan would be better off without him.

The problem is, even Ford knows that’s a lie.

“I… I just have a lot on my mind is all,” offers Ford desperately, hoping he’ll buy it. He hates worrying Stan. His lover has nothing to be afraid of in that aspect. He was getting erect earlier… wasn’t he? Now Ford isn’t so sure.

“Uh huh,” his brother grunts, obviously not believing him.

The gruff face is a mask for his own never-dying fears and Ford despises that. If he ever left their house Stan would probably be afraid Ford was cheating on him.

Realizing he was being extremely foolish and hurting the one person who didn’t deserve to suffer, Ford sighs. He has to say _something_. Now that he wants Stan he might not have him. It was the way their moronic lives seemed to always work.

"I'm sorry, Stanley. I know I've been a little… odd today."

"I noticed," he mumbles begrudgingly, arms folding in a huff. Not even meaning to, Ford gives him a pained look that causes Stan to sigh and forcefully glance away.

The fireworks keep going off like a battlefield, making Ford jumpier than ever.

Watching his lover deflate snaps Ford’s heart to pieces. Wishing to fix what he accidentally created, Ford reaches out a hand of truce. Stan won't even look at him. Maybe, like himself, he's afraid he'll break.

"I always find you attractive, Stan. I always have and assume I always will. That- that's not the problem.” Ford blinks, eyebrows raising while rethinking his words. “Actually, it is."

Stan gives him a confused, hurt look. It chisels through Ford’s bones, slicing deep into the marrow.

"Not- not like that. I..."

When he goes to speak it all just sounds so _stupid_. Ford’s eyes clench tight, air growing sparse.

_Goddammit!_ growls Ford internally. _Why can't I say it? Am I really that afraid it'll come true? What the hell is wrong with me?_

When he opens them Stan is looking back, still hurt yet somehow understanding. His hands splay over Ford’s inner thighs, noticing the shared fear of losing the other.

"Hey, if you're not ready to tell me yet, that's okay. It was dumb of me to keep askin'."

Ford shakes his head.

"What's ‘dumb’ is that I can't even tell you what's wrong. Every time I go to speak I-"

Feeling the raw dread assault him once more, Ford closes his eyes, unable to calm Stan's fears and despising himself for it.

He breathes in deep, trying to find solace in Stan's presence. That usually works. This time it doesn’t.   

“I can assure you that I am indeed aroused. Much more than my anatomy is proving to you.” Ford stares annoyed down at his penis, attempting to will it into an erection. Seeing no change, Ford sighs, scrubbing his face with an abnormal hand. “Ugh! It’s pointless to try any more than you already have. I’m sorry, Stanley. Just have your way with me and know in the back of your mind that I want this too.” 

Still covering his ashamed face, Stan's hands start creeping upward. They slide over the dip of Ford's pelvis, up his mostly-bare stomach. The shielding arm moves, eyes opening once more to settle with mild confusion on Stan's rugged features. His brother doesn't look up. He’s watching his own hands gently touch the bare skin, showing Ford’s body the love it desperately needs, even if his libido is badly damaged. Knowing that Stan wasn’t about to give up anytime soon turns Ford’s heart into fluttering angel wings. 

When he leans down, mouth pressing small kisses over slender hips, Ford loses all other thoughts.

"You know, that does feel really nice," Ford’s deep, soothing voice admits breathily.

"That's the point."

Stan's tongue glides over his skin, wet and sure. It feels wonderful. After a day of fighting off advances, Ford knows he's a first class idiot. Stan always found a way to make everything alright, and there was nothing his brother was more skilled at than making love.

“Just havin’ performance issues, Fordsy?”

Ford nods, cheeks hot.

“I’m sorry. I really do want to make love to you.”

Stan shrugs, tension melting with the desperation in Ford’s voice. As long as that’s all it was, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t be. Happens to all of us. I want you to feel good, even if ya can’t get hard.”

When Stan’s lips press against his inner thigh, Ford looks down in shock. He watches his cock start to pulse hard, semi-erect and rubbing against Stan’s rough cheek. Stan glances at the hardening length, body becoming a physical, content sigh.  

Stan wraps a hand around the cock, pulling it up and out of the way while he sucks one of his balls into his mouth. Ford bites his lip, knowing he’s trusting his most sensitive area to a place so close to Stan’s teeth, yet he has complete faith.

“You were puttin’ too much pressure on yourself, Stanford,” explains Stan simply, actions halting momentarily. He always did have a way of simplifying his twin’s unusual complexities. “Just have fun. I’ll make you feel good, I promise. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Ford gulps, panic jabbing like a ghost hand through ribs. Another phrase Ford didn’t need to hear. It would do him absolutely no good thinking about Stan being gone.

But as Stan sucks the other testicle into his mouth, gently mouthing the soft flesh, Ford stops thinking.

Taking a page out of Stan’s book, Ford lets himself relax and enjoy the ride.

He watches his brother’s head between his legs, suddenly swallowing him down to the base.

The scene is overpowering. Seeing Stan there makes him feel faint. If he keeps watching he’s sure he’ll come much too quickly.

Wanting this to last, his eyes close momentarily, enjoying every sensation whispering across his skin as Stan sucks his cock.

The heat of the night sticks to his skin, sending Ford to the past. Out in the open like this, doing things they probably shouldn’t, reminds him of their teenage years. Sometimes during hot summer nights similar to this they would go to the ocean and skinny dip to Ford’s behest. Of course, he never explained to his brother the _exact_ reason why getting naked in front of him made him highly uncomfortable. Or why his eyes quickly aborted their gaze of Stan’s uncovered groin when his brother caught him. This scenario is precisely why.

Hidden under the darkened waters, Ford was allowed to watch his brother frolic as nature intended. Without shame, he could imagine Stan pulling him close, giving him a cheeky grin as they would become one in the water. While swimming in the vast Atlantic, Ford could cast his dreams out from shore, wishing they could hop on the Stan o’ War and follow them, never to return.

They always felt like they were the only two people in the world, laughing and splashing each other; racing competitively though Ford would lose every time. The ocean was once their favorite spot on earth. It was the one place they felt free.

The older Ford smiles, almost feeling the damp water settle around them as Mother Nature’s embrace. It’s a dream come true forcing away a nightmare.

"Better?" asks Stan, watching precome bead on Ford’s cock; not knowing the problem yet always being the solution.

"Much. Thank you."

He hears the rawness to his own voice, causing Stan to pause for a moment. His lover gulps, nodding once.

"Don't mention it."

For a moment Stan watches him, frozen. Then he clears his throat, own mind coming back from a faraway place.

"You comfy?" asks the considerate Stan, leaning toward their discarded clothes. Distracted, Ford watches his brother pull a small bottle of lubricant from his jacket pocket. Ford’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

_So, he had planned this all along…_

Ford didn’t know what to think about that.

"Yes, I suppose." As much as you could be lying on uneven wooden boards about to get pounded by your brother. At least the soft blanket warded away splinters. That was definitely a plus.

"If it hurts, let me know. We can always move this inside."

"No!" Ford snaps a little too forcefully, surprising even himself.

That gets him an eyebrow raise as Stan settles back between his legs, movements halted in mild shock at the outburst.

"I… I just don't wanna miss the fireworks," Ford explains, though he knows he’s lying. They now share the same fantasy. Thinking over the past, how much he wanted to wrap his legs around Stan and make love for the first time, the ocean keeping them upright, Ford knows he wants this more than anything. Fate gave him this opportunity for a reason. It might be their only chance.

Unassuming, Stan looks distractedly over at the fireworks, smile growing. From their angle they can still see them shooting into the darkened sky, creating light wherever they go. They’re almost deafening to Ford’s ears. Or maybe that was his heart pounding.

When Stan looks down at his partner, love for him painstakingly obvious, Ford loses all thought.

It’s definitely his heartbeat.

Stan’s matching eyes go low, cock painfully hard and untouched. His brother looks beyond ready to fuck him senseless. Ford hopes that's possible. He was quite tired of thinking right now.

"Ya did do a great job with ‘em,” compliments Stan, squirting cool lube onto his hand. Stan warms it with his fingers, eyes returning to Ford’s. "I can't believe you did that for me."

"I'd do anything for you," admits Ford automatically. There's no doubt in his mind. He would fight for this man. He would die for him. No questions asked. If Stan needed help he would be there without a second thought. A love like that is dangerous and precisely why Ford had been afraid. Not of Stan, but of himself. Ford would destroy the world for him. He almost had.

Gulping, Stan decides not to comment though his fond gaze says it all.

“Ready?” he asks instead, lubed hand sliding between Ford’s ass cheeks.

Ford lets out a sharp breath, body tensing. When the tip of Stan’s large finger pushes at the tight entrance, his body opens to him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Ford breathes, chest moving fast.

He lifts his legs for better access, feet planted solidly against the ground. Stan watches with a growing pleasure that doesn’t entirely revolve around sex.

His finger pushes in slowly. It glides in around the ringed muscle, Ford automatically moaning in response. His body always wants Stan inside him.

When it bottoms out, Stan curls his finger, pressing against the tightness he’s soon going to make his own. He pulls it out before pushing back inside, toe-curling sensation amazing yet making Ford long for much, much more.

"You like that, bro; my finger in your ass?" asks the husky voice dripping with sex.

As he watches Ford, Stan’s other hand strokes his own cock in time.

Ford nods shakily as Stan’s finger slides in and out, mind fizzling. The large digit felt so fucking good. Still, that was nothing compared to his cock. He wasn’t sure why, but sex with Stan was always mind-blowing.

Another finger pushes inside without warning, slick and strong. Ford could come right then.

Seeing his brother’s desperate need, Stan pulls out. Anger taking place of pleasure, Ford groans loudly at the loss of contact. When he sees Stan’s lubed hand sliding over his cock, Ford is anything but disappointed.

His brother lines up the head, looking to Ford for permission. Wanting nothing but Stan inside him _right now_ , Ford’s legs wrap around his ass, pulling him forward. Grinning, Stan gets the picture. He pushes the head between Ford’s slicked ass cheeks, tip pressing against the stretched hole.

As his body settles over Ford, hips pushing forward, his cock sinks inside.

Ford’s breath hitches, eyes flickering with dancing sensation.

“Mmm,” moans Stan at the tightness around his cock. He lies draped over him, hips butting against Ford’s.

With his brother’s weight against his chest, cock filling him up, Ford sees stars.

_Fuck_.

His eyes flutter closed as Stan pulls out a little just to thrust back in.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Ford pants, practically swooning as Stan slowly fucks him. Twelve fingers dig into wide shoulders without realizing. His lover sighs happily above him, both glad to finally be connected in the most intimate of ways.

"Feel good?"

Ford's eyes open as Stan starts to thrust, slow and treacherously teasing. He’s so filled he feels complete.

" _Amazing_ ," admits Ford breathily.

The affirmation causes a wide grin. Ford’s heart expands tight in his chest. How could he have had such doubts? As always, Stan felt wonderful. Of course he would make everything better. Eventually he always did. It just took the stubborn Ford a long time to accept any help.

Setting an easy rhythm, Stan lets his mouth place small kisses over his neck. Ford stretches, allowing him better access.

Stan’s lips move across his jaw, eventually meeting the corner of his mouth.

When their lips meet, Ford can’t breathe. The kiss is so passionate he melts at the touch. It’s as though Stan’s putting his entire being into it; like he can’t help his emotions from bleeding in.

Ford sighs into his mouth as they make love. He finally feels what he always craves- being surrounded and absorbed by Stan’s presence.

Giving it his all, Ford responds in kind. His lips glide against Stan’s, attempting to share all his thoughts, all his feelings as they’re connected in every way imaginable. Ford wants their emotions to blend together as their bodies do the same, sharing in all that is each other.

He no longer feels suffocated. If needed, Stan will lend him an oxygen tank.

Floating on air, Ford’s hands roam across Stan’s back, reveling in the sensation of skin.

Until his fingers ghost over the horrid old brand. Shame surges through his body in an entangling darkness. He feels ill as a linebacker repeatedly rams his stomach. Stan doesn't even notice where his hand has settled, he just loves being touched.

Guild-ridden, Ford keeps rubbing it soothingly like he'll take the pain away he caused all those years ago. If he could fix his wrongs, he would do anything. Stan never deserved what happened, or the horrible way he treated him. He can’t change what happened, and Ford’s well aware he hates himself for it.

Eventually Stan looks up, giving him a knowing look. Stan kisses his lover, hand gliding over Ford’s scarred skin. Seeing Stan have the same reaction is disheartening. It’s then that Ford realizes they weren’t so different after all. They _both_ have repentance to pay.

Before Ford was afraid his fingertips would shatter him like glass. Now he knows better. The fear of losing someone shouldn't stop you from being attentive to them, it should make you feel blessed for every moment you share. They spent a long time apart, but that’s no longer important. Stan is here now. That’s all that matters.

Realizing so creates a whiplash in his mind. Wanting to be infinitely close, Ford attempts to pull him nearer, though that’s not possible.

Knowing what Ford wants, Stan’s strong arms slide under his shoulders, hoisting him up. Now Ford is wrapped around him like a hug as Stan’s cock keeps sliding in and out of him, bodies so entwined they’re almost one again.

Ford sighs against his neck, nuzzling close. Breathing in Stan’s masculine scent, surrounded by his engulfing figure, Ford’s mind stutters. His eyes shoot open like a gasp. All this time he thought being close to Stan would destroy him. Now Ford sees he’s a colossal idiot. As usual, his twin was way ahead. Stan has been trying to show him all day and the moronic genius was finally catching up.

_Alone we’re weak, together we’re strong._

It’s so obvious he could scream. If their roles were reversed, the hesitation never would have happened. Stan would’ve stared right through the fears and held Ford like he was everything in rebellious spite. Ford doesn’t realize why people always thought _he_ was the special one. He’s inventive and intelligent, but in the end that left him with nothing. Stan was the world’s true gift.

Ford pulls back just enough to watch Stan’s face. He watches every sensation flicker across his matching features as they make love- every emotion, every spark of pure ecstasy. These moments are what he lives for- making Stan feel like he’s the most important person in the world. Which he is. At least, he is to Ford.

Being able to share the experience with him is an unearned honor. He’d give up his own salvation if only it meant a second of perfect joy in Stan’s heart. Gladly, he doesn’t have to. He already knows that when Stan is in his presence, his soul has never felt fuller, his body more alive. Every touch, every movement is for the other and not themselves. That’s the difference between lust and love. If he had any remaining doubts about which they qualified as, they were long gone by now. Stan isn’t his everything, but he is _so_ damn close. Especially when they’re being watched by the world yet the nervous man sees and hears nothing but Stan. He’s the only thing that matters. He always was.

Fireworks shoot off in the distance, lighting Stan’s face. But the only sparks Ford cares about are those between them. They shoot off their bodies like electricity in a howling storm- powerful and to be awed. It’s always been good, but it’s never been like _this_. Maybe it was the possibility of getting caught, or the ambiance as booms echo in the night sky and sparkles of light descend upon them. Or perhaps it was something more. Something neither of them could put a finger to. It felt like it didn’t even have a name yet. No word was perfect enough to describe its beauty- not even love. When you find the one person you click with, you just _know_. It’s one of the few true, rare beauties in life only the lucky ever find, and of all the treasures Ford has hunted for, Stan takes the prize.

Noticing eyes on him, Stan looks at Ford and grins.  

“Does it feel good? You like this?”

Between them had been a conflicting push-pull of emotion. Stan is the magnetically positive, Ford frustratingly negative _and_ positive, both drawn and repelled. It's strong and overpowering.

As he watches and feels Stan take up his whole vision, be his entire world, he's scared. He's mortified. But more than anything it feels so fucking good. Stan's actions are pushing away the darkness, giving him enough light to fend off all the swirling demons above his head. Ford could never thank him enough. As always, Stan was the cause of, and solution to, all his problems.

“Yes,” admits Ford, adoring the way Stan’s eyes light up at the praise. Lust starts to bloom full, careful thrusts satisfying but not quite enough.

"I… I need more, Stanley. Please."

"A-Anything you want, babe," agrees Stan. He can tell by his face that Stan had been holding back for Ford’s sake.

Getting permission, Stan’s cock pistons into him harder and faster. Ford's head lolls backwards as he lets out a low moan. Feeling Stan engulf him, their bodies connected in every way, makes everything sharp and desperate.

" _Uhhn_ , Stan, that's fantastic. You- you're fantastic.”

For a second Stan’s movements stutter. Then his throat clears, voice not matching his emotions.

"Tell me somethin' I don’t know," he says, sounding much less confident and cocky than expected. In fact, he sounds lost.

Surprised, Ford looks deeper. His brother’s expression is so strong with want and need it almost mimics confusion. Ford’s cock pulses seeing Stan’s already so close.

Knowing he was the one making Stan feel so desperate gives Ford a giant ego boost. His lover had been so attentive all day- watching him like a hawk, trying to fix all wrongs and make everything better. It was obvious Stan had been concerned and having sex was his way to show Ford he was wanted and adored. Now Ford could pay it forward.

He pulls Stan even closer, lips mouthing over rough stubble. Stan’s Adams Apple bobs at the attention, eyebrows arching. Both feel the tension draining completely as Stan’s positive charge conquers all.

Seeing and hearing Stan pant as he fucks him, slicked cock sliding in and out as their sweaty stomachs press together was a godsend. Ford’s throbbing cock is sandwiched between them, pressure and friction wonderfully delicious. Feeling Stan's cock bottom out in his ass, hearing his balls slap against his tight cheeks as his brother moans was glorious.

Ford finds himself falling desperately into Stan’s affections. He cards a hand through the short hair, loving the way Stan’s smoky eyes flicker with arousal. Ford presses against the matching face, own breaths becoming shallow as lust grows. He pants against Stan’s hair, body suddenly jolting as he desperately cries out.

“Stan!” Ford says loud in his ear as Stan’s cock brushes his prostate, sparks of pleasure assaulting his cock. Stan smiles devilishly against his cheek, voice velvety sex in his ear.

"You like that, sweetcheeks?"

"Yes, l- love monkey."

Stan grits his teeth at the mention of the rarely spouted nickname. It was almost always said during sex when Ford felt less awkward about saying such an absurdity. Right now Ford was _far_ too gone to care about embarrassing himself. Stan could win a gold medal in love-making.

"Oh- oh god,” pants Ford, almost like he's surprised as Stan’s fingernails carefully scratch across his back. Swimming cerulean eyes flicker, mouth parting as his body tingles.

The sex is phenomenal. Between Stan's cock fucking him deep inside and his intense concentration on making Ford feel amazing, the genius knows he’s the luckiest man in the world.

In the warm summer air their connected bodies heave. Perspiration beads on Stan’s skin. Rough, shallow breaths as he thrusts are enough to drive Ford mad. How he looks at Ford likes he's everything, like nothing else matters, makes him realize he already fell down that rabbit hole.

"You like this, huh?" asks Stan as Ford’s fingers clench him tighter. The world could shatter around them and he knows Stan wouldn't even care. Ford feels himself getting close simply at the idea. Stan held on so tight while Ford always pushed away. Guilt stabs his gut. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He loves him, god dammit.

Ford pulls Stan to him, kissing him hard. Stan acts surprised momentarily before moaning into his mouth, tongue sliding against his lips. Ford lets him inside, muscle battling wet muscle, tingling sensation pleasant and strong. Stan kisses Ford like he needs him to survive. He fleetingly wonders if that is indeed true. Ford knows it is for himself.

As they kiss, bodies and souls intertwined, Ford knows he’s getting close. Ford craves the affection. He’s starved, like he’ll never be satisfied. Feeling Stan’s large yet gentle body all around him makes his head spin.  

“Stanley?” he says like he’s confused; mind somewhere else. All he can feel are the sparks building up charge between them. He can’t think of anything else to say. The genius is enthralled by Stan's face above him. He can't look away. Neither can Stan.

As Stan fucks him faster, Ford lets out a large sigh, loving the way the fireworks dance across Stan's glasses, making his adoring eyes look like fireflies.

Knowing this man was entirely his gives him a feeling nothing else ever could. They are each other's and no one could take that away, not even the subconscious.

When Stan smiles, Ford’s world jolts. An impending earthquake shakes Ford to his core. The surges blow past the Richter scale, body screaming.

"Stan!" Ford cries desperately, balls drawing up. He's suddenly so close his body thrums and whirls. Tightened muscles clench while breaths stagger. "Stan! I'm about to-"

Seeing Stan watch him with a lust-soaked expression, so close and desperate too, his movements stutter. Ford feels the rush from core to head, pooling in his balls. Those matching eyes lock onto his like a heat-seeking missile, Ford unable to get away. He can’t help himself. Stan is dragging him under and Ford is desperate to drown.

" _Uhhhn_ ," he moans loud, fingers clawing the blanket for dear life as an overpowering orgasm assaults him. Their sandwiched stomachs create a wonderful friction, pulling at his cock as Stan's movements become erratic. The assault is sublime.

His brother moans loud, hands clenching his shoulders so he doesn't go anywhere. As if Ford ever would.

When Stan pants his name, that’s when Ford loses focus. Body quaking, Ford erupts, explosions reminiscent of the fireworks all around them. Hot come shoots like a volcano between them. He screams Stan's name, semen spurting onto his stomach. His brother pants desperately above him, unfocused eyes never leaving his.

" _Stanford_ ," he mewls as though surprised, own arousal peeked.

His voice is so gone.

Ford watches with intense curiosity, the hole in his heart completely filled as wave after wave of orgasm drags him through wonderful depths.

"Fuck, I- I'm so close,” Stan moans through clenched teeth.

Afterglow beaming as an internal sun, Ford smiles up at his brother, rays engulfing him with their warmth. There are stray strands of hair falling from Stan’s sweaty brow as his cock desperately pistons inside him. Smile widening, soul growing infinitely fond, Ford brushes the strands behind his ear.

Stan's eyes go wide at the kind gesture. Ford isn’t the only one drowning in cerulean eyes.

"O-Oh, God," Stan chokes, body rumbling with pleasure. Come spurts into Ford's ass as his lover is overcome with an intense orgasm, mouth open in an endless pant. " _Fuuuck_ ," his deep voice cries, loud enough to scare the bats as Stan explodes inside him. Eyelids flutter. His breath is ragged as he slowly thrusts in and out of Ford's ass, pleasure like exposed nerves.

They've done this horizontal dance so many times, but it's never felt like this. Stan’s movements slow, sweat dripping off his brow as he breathes loud. Feeling the evidence of Stan’s orgasm deep inside him gives Ford a satisfaction that can’t be described.

Both float together on clouds of afterglow, tension entirely releases.

As they slowly descend back to Earth, Ford casually glances at their surroundings. Save the missing squeals of bed springs and soft mattress under his back, he barely remembered they weren't inside. Yet he knows Stan probably had the time of their lives knowing anyone or anything could see him claiming his brother.

Ford has to agree it was even more intense than usual. It had been a wonderful idea, he hates to admit.

Groaning, Stan slips his wet, flaccid cock out from Ford's slippery ass. He rolls with a hard thump to the floor beside him, instantly regretting flinging his aging body to the porch.

" _Fuck_ ," Stan moans happily, staring up at the porch ceiling in awe.

"’Fuck’ indeed," breathes Ford hazily, orgasm bringing him a solace nothing else could.

Yet it's not the feeling itself, it's who he shared it with. Now Ford knows for sure. He could never give Stan up. He was more than a drug, he was air. Without him, Ford couldn't breathe; he couldn’t function.

Ford lets out a shaky sigh, light shining on his darkness. Finally, it's not sadness filling him, but pleasure.

"Mmm. I love it when you swear," Stan growls, rolling over and kissing him delicately. Ford adores the feeling of his lover's sweaty, hot, naked body draped over him like a snuggly blanket. Ford would never get used to this, yet in the best of ways. It would never stop feeling amazingly surreal.

"I'm well aware," smiles Ford. The sincere emotion makes Stan pleased.

"Heh. You're finally smilin'. I never thought I'd get a real one of those outta you today." Stan presses a finger against his lips, letting it linger.

"Nor did I," admits Ford through pearly whites. "But I'm glad you did."

Stan kisses him again, soft lips gliding over Ford's in a way that makes his heart flutter.

"Me too."

Stan kisses him once more for good measure. Then he reaches behind himself for a discarded napkin from their picnic.

As Stan wipes away the cooling semen from Ford’s stomach he can’t help but smile at the sweet, familial gesture.

“Was that good for you too?"

Ford honestly doesn't know why he has to ask. His semen should be a perfect indicator. But Ford knows his brother isn’t the cocky bastard most think him to be.

Thinking over the romp, he can safely say he’s completely satisfied.

"Mmm. Very."

Still breathing hard, his lover glances over hesitantly.

“You sure?”

"Of course. You’re amazing." Ford smiles dopily, feeling truly happy for the first time all day. He sighs, hours of anxiety and fear melting away. Ford had become butter, Stan the sauna.

"Heh, you don't hafta tell me," Stan says, pretending to be cocky when he’s anything but.

He leans in for a long kiss, lips shimmered with sweat.

"I told you, Ford, you're a modern day Don Juan. Ya charmed the pants right off me. Do I need to worry about you foolin' around?" kids Stan, voice titillating.

Ford rolls his eyes good naturedly, lips upturned without force.

"I assure you, my irresistible charms will only be used on you. No one else. I promise."

Though Stan surely knew that, the almost shy smile received is worth the reassurance. Ford adores that look. It was Stan, completely open. No filters, no masks, just his sweet heart peeking through from the normally carefully pulled veil of indifference and gruff stubbornness.

"You're- you're not just sayin' that to spare my feelings, are ya?"

For the hundredth time in his life, Ford knew he was truly blessed. Perhaps not by some all-seeing being, yet nonetheless, he was entirely in someone or something's debt. A million lifetimes and Ford could never hold a candle to Stan's inferno.

Ford watches Stan, body barely on the blanket. The genius frowns, disliking that Stan is letting him hog the softness and allow himself to lie on the hard wood.

Ford scooches off the blanket and onto the dirty planks. He motions for Stan to get closer, his brother not understanding why but agreeing none the same. That's when Ford reaches behind him and covers Stan completely with the blanket. He presses close to share body heat, reveling in the sensation of warm skin. Stan looks at him pleasantly surprised, bodies entwined under the soft, coddling blanket. Feeling Stan so close makes Ford’s heart grows, filing his rib cage and pressing against the sharp edges. But it felt good. It felt nice. It felt like love again. Something Ford had been afraid to feel.

"Believe me," Ford finally says, nose pressed against Stan's chest, smelling of sweat and woodsy cologne; "that was wonderful. You’re the only man for me, Stanley. You always were."

His arms pull Stan close, cuddling into the strong facade. His tired body and exhausted mind lie like a wrestler defeated on the mat. Stan finally had him pinned and he was about out for the count. For once Ford doesn't mind losing.

When they were born, Ford came out scared and screaming. The doctors marveled at the six-fingered abomination while their mother yelled that something was wrong. When Stan came out fifteen minutes later, they sat the younger twin next to his crying brother in the crib. While everyone was appalled by the freak of nature and his unwanted doppelgänger, Stan was unaffected. Just as in the womb, Stan snuggled close, Ford instantly shushing. When no one else was there, Stan always was, to console and fix his brother’s pain. He should've known some things never quite change. Age simply added a new element to express their deeply-ingrained love.

Not wanting to let his brother be uncomfortable either, Stan pulls the blanket further over Ford’s back, creating a lovely cocoon of warmth. Now that they’re left sweaty and exhausted, their perspiration would leave them chilled and feeling vulnerable. But together they’re warm and content.

"Glad you think so,” breathes Stan, arms fully enveloping his lover’s sated form.

Out here in the cooling night air it felt like camping- something they did many times as children.  

Stan kisses his forehead before sighing.

"That was really damn good. I haven't come that hard in a long time. Thanks for, ya know, agreein' to this."

From his tone Ford knows Stan's thinking a lot more that he isn't saying. Yet he's not sure how to ask what's on his mind.

Instead, Ford nuzzles closer, glad to feel protected and safe. Everything can wait until Stan’s ready. It was the least Ford could do to pay him back for being so understanding.

"You're welcome."

Being so content, Ford could almost fall asleep. If not for Stan's body becoming tense, he very well could. It was impossible not to notice the creeping feeling of unspoken thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," lies Stan.

Sighing, Ford leans back, surveying the situation. Though his face was set, his eyes were swirling with conflict. Those eyes always gave him away.

Not wanting to talk just yet, Stan pulls Ford’s face back into his comforting chest, hands instantly carding through fluffy hair. It’s a wonderful distraction.

Dull fingernails scratch Ford's scalp. Prickles of sensation combine with the carding of fingers through soft hair, melting him into a moldable puddle. It's a calming yet exciting motion.

"Mmm," he moans absently, all concentration on the place where they're connected. Ford always had adored having his hair played with. Stan somehow naturally knew how to do it right. If he had done this sooner Ford's certain Stan would have gotten laid _much_ quicker.

Eyes already fluttered closed, Ford doesn't see the way Stan's expression flashes bittersweet.

Ford breathes in deeply, blanket smelling of sex. It's a surprisingly calming feeling to know what they'd just done and to feel Stan still beside him. His twin was an excellent lover. In more ways than one. Ford wonders if he had accidentally gotten leprechaun blood on himself during an experience some years ago, because he was beyond lucky.

“If we keep fucking like that I’ll start losin’ water weight,” Stan speaks into his ear, sounding hopeful.

Ford can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. He watches his perspiring lover, exhausted yet oh so satisfied. Getting a laugh out of Ford makes Stan smile wider.

For a while they just watch each other, heart becoming a blooming rosebud, growing beautiful and red.

Sighing heavily, Ford snuggles infinitely close. His arms encircle his lover, adoring the rising and falling of their chests as one.

Rubbing Stan's expansive back, large arms wrapped around his torso, Ford can't help but feel free. Now the only thing drowning was Ford's heart; the hole left by the dreams fatal gunshot wound steadily filled and healed by Stan's adoration. Or, maybe there was never a hole after all, supposes Ford. His heart constantly swam in the seas of Stan's vast, nurturing care. It could never leave, no matter how much he struggled. It never truly wanted to. The genius was always just too afraid to admit as much.

At one time Ford felt suffocated by his twin. Now, without him, he couldn’t breathe. Intellect couldn’t irrationalize this fear, it fueled it. Everything that happened in the land of sleep was more than plausible. Wherever Ford went there was danger. Now he wasn’t doing it alone. Where he goes, Stan follows. It wasn’t only his life in danger, it was Stan’s. The reality of it all was just now catching up to him.

He knows it isn't actually possible for that exact scenario of his dream to take place, but their adventures were dangerous. Gravity Falls was dangerous. Hell, _life_ was dangerous. Stan had taken care of himself in dire situations before, but time always catches up to you.

Stan must sense the acute tension because he clears his throat, choosing to speak.

"Were you worried about the kids comin’ back?" surmises Stan.

Ford shakes his head against Stan’s neck.

"As long as they don't catch us in the act, I think we're alright."

"What about our room? There's almost nothin' in your old one. How are you gonna sleep with me? They're gonna get suspicious, Stanford."

Ford's eyes bug. _Shit_. He hadn't even thought of that. They'd have to sneak around like they had something to hide. As though they were doing something wrong. Which he's beyond sure now that they aren’t. He loves Stan and Stan loves him. Isn't that all that's important?

Mood dampening, Stan moves to peer into his brother’s eyes and sees Ford visibly deflating. He rubs Ford’s cool back, kissing his stubble. His nose nuzzles his cheek, instantly making Ford feel better though he doesn't believe he deserves it.

"Hey, chin up. We got nothin’ to be ashamed of. Don't worry, babe. It'll be kinda hot sneakin' around. You'll see."

Stan cradles Ford's face with one hand, excited smile meeting his eyes.

"Maybe it'll be fun. I dunno, like bein' teenagers again."

"I never snuck out. That was always you."

Stan blinks once, frowning.

"Whatever. Point is, nothin' really has ta change. We can take chances if we have to. The kids aren't always attached to our hip. We'll ask 'em for alone time every once in a while. We don't hafta tell 'em why."

"Stanley, we're not kicking out our niece and nephew so we can have sex!" Ford bites offended. _The audacity…_

Stan sighs, ever suffering, shaking his head.

"That's not what I was talkin' about, Sixer. I meant for a date. Just the two of us bein’ romantic. Plain and simple."

Stan's hand drops to Ford's shoulder, soft fingertips grazing over sensitive skin.

"We can still have sex, we just gotta be quiet."

Ford gulps. Easier said than done.

Eventually Stan sighs, hands halting at Ford’s trepidation.

"I'm serious, Ford. We have nothing to worry about. Mabel and Dipper love us. If they find out, who cares? They've learned worse things about us."

"They might not think so," says a morbid Ford, glancing sadly into Stan's eyes.

Beneath it all Ford really is afraid. He's been judged his whole life. What if this would be no different? Those kids were the only family they had who actually loved them. If they lost them...

Stan envelops him in a tight hug, pulling Ford snug. He lets him, though he tenses considerably.

Stan hesitates for a moment like he's afraid he's done something wrong. Ford wants to slap himself, yet he can’t help the skeptical reaction.

"They'll get it, Sixer. Trust me. They might be weirded out at first but they'll grow to accept it. Believe me, Ford, those kids just want us to be happy."

Ford nods, sighing against Stan's shoulder. Eyelids clench tight, hands clinging onto his twin for dear life. He's feeling vulnerable. Suddenly he’s standing in the middle off the desert covered in crosshairs, alien snipers all around. Part of him needs to push Stan away and the other wants to latch on like a gorilla cub to its mother. The kids might not accept at first but they would eventually understand. If they saw the way they looked at each other, neither would ever want to break that up.

Stan rubs smooth knuckles up and down his arm, soothing the scared man considerably. Though they just had sex, Ford is tempted for round number two. It’s frightening to know just what Stan does to him, yet Ford knows he'd be lost without him.

“I believe you,” admits Ford. This fear of the unknown is a tragically common human trait, Ford knows. With an unspoken, resilient relationship and deep-rooted feelings, anything is possible. Sometimes it’s just hard for Ford to remember that.

When Stan’s body relaxes at the words, Ford’s does too.

Booms ring through his ears, hard wood presses into his side. Ford should be uncomfortable but he isn’t. He wouldn't trade this moment for anything. What they have is beyond special. It's something Ford's never had with anyone. Not even _close_.

“Ugh. This was a bad idea,” huffs Stan after a moment, rubbing his knee.

"I entirely disagree," frowns Ford, heart snapping.

It had been a _wonderful_ idea. How could Stan say such a horrible absurdity? He was _finally_ starting to feel whole now that Stan had pushed his way back into the slot designed for him in Ford's heart. Knowing he was back where he should be made Ford feel complete. That could _never_ be bad in his book.

"Calm down, drama queen. I didn’t mean the sex. I meant laying like this is bad for my shitty old body.”

As a bone pops, Stan makes a pained face.

Ford frowns deeper.

"Don't say that. I love your body the way it is."

Stan gives him a smile though Ford knows he'll never feel the same.

"Glad _someone_ likes it."

Not knowing what else to do, Ford pulls Stan in for a kiss. His mouth moves down Stan’s neck and chest, hands roaming his pudgy tummy. Eventually Stan sighs, relaxing into the touch.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, hating to admit how much he appreciates that Ford wants his body.

“Likewise,” answers Ford, grateful that Stan allows him the honor.

After a minute, Stan groans, bones cracking as he hopelessly stretches the sore muscles.

"Yeah, I'm still sore,” complains Stan with pain, throwing off the blanket to stand up.

Ford sits up in an instant panic, not wanting Stan to leave. He’s glad to see his brother stretch his arms toward the roof in all his naked glory. Then he looks down at Ford, extending a hand.

The twin takes it, mind whirling with unknowns. Gladly Stan doesn’t have any more surprises in mind. He leads Ford to the edge of the porch, letting the blanket fall to the floor for them to sit on.

When they both settle comfortably on the softness, Stan pulls the blanket over their shoulders, returning the favor. In this position they could snuggle close, finally watching the fireworks that Ford had worked so hard on. 

Their legs dangle over the porch as they watch shooting starts bursting forth in the night sky. Ford should be enthralled, but something doesn’t feel right. Their shoulders are touching and nothing else. The post-coidal guilt must be leaving Stan feeling fragile, he assumes.

Ford grabs some packing bubbles, hoping he can cushion his lover's bruised emotions and keep them safe.

“Stan?” he asks, ready to assist.

There’s no answer.

Stan sits there silent about what's wrong, chewing on his lip. Seeing his brother in pain and not being able to do a damn thing about it punctures his soul. Now Ford knows how Stan must have felt this whole time. His heart twists painfully, eyes stinging. He regrets his own foolish decisions instantly.

“Stanley?” he tries again, voice much more desperate.

His brother sighs, but it surely isn’t happy.

“Okay. Fine. It’s later. What the hell had you so distant earlier? I was tryin’ to get your mind off whatever it was but you didn’t really bite.”

Ford chews on the possible words, not wanting this conversation. Should he tell him the truth? It wasn’t that important, even if it felt that way. Emotions were often deceiving. That’s why logic was Ford’s go-to.

When he takes too long to answer, Stan slumps, all eyes on him.

"I love you, Ford. You know that, right? You can tell me what's goin' on with you. Whatever it is, I can take it."

Ford narrows his eyes. Does Stan think he wants to break up? Or he'll admit something that will shatter their relationship? Ford is drawing blanks watching the light blast across Stan's cheeks. 

"Of course I know that. I love you too.”

"Then why didn't you want me to touch you?!” his brother erupts. “Every time I touched you ya freaked out on me. All I wanted was to be close to you. We don't have a lot of time left ya know."

Ford’s lungs are set on fire. He instantly gets tunnel vision, pain stabbing like a heart attack.

"I’m painfully aware," he says feeling wrecked.

Ford’s words cause a strong expression from Stan which can’t be ignored.

“Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“You'll- you'll think it's stupid."

Stan looks through him with a powerful scope that shakes him cold.

"No I won't."

Stan squeezes Ford’s hand. The penetrating gaze dies but the feeling it left does not.

"If it's about us, we can fix it. Whatever it is. If I did something wrong or- or I did something too much, or not enough, we'll work it out." Stan looks so sad Ford wants to pull him close and never let go. "Right?"

There's nothing Ford hates worse in the world than seeing his brother crushed.

Guilt flooding in to a submersed ship's engine room, Ford feels his mind short circuit.

"You did nothing wrong, Stan. I..."

Looking at Stan seeming like a frightened child afraid his parents are getting divorced instead of the strong linebacker type Ford always saw him as, he can't help but break. Watching the vulnerable and open, concerned and patient expression, Ford sighs. He knows what he must do.

“It’s stupid, really. I omitted that my dream was about you. M-more specifically, your death. You’d been shot and were bleeding out. I… I tried so desperately to save you, but…” Ford clenches his fists, looking down in shame, body rocking with anger and self-hatred. “You died in my arms. There was nothing I could do, Stanley. I failed you.”

After a beat, Ford feels a hand on his shoulder. He waits for the waterworks. And waits. But none come. Apparently someone forgot to notify the company.

When Ford looks up sniffling, ashamed of the illogical reaction yet needing reassurance anyway, his mind stutters. There was Stan, smiling sadly yet understanding completely.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’m still here, aren’t I? Ya can’t get rid of me that easily.” Stan squeezes his arm, smile growing. Ford can’t help but join in, however weak. "Don't worry, babe; I'm too stubborn to die."

Though Ford knows it's not entirely true –that death can never be cheated– he needs to cling to something. At least Stan was willing to fight to stay alive all to be with him. That thought did make him feel relieved. As always, Stan made everything better. If it were up to Stan, he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Ford was stuck with him and he couldn’t be happier.

“You know, I almost believe that,” Ford admits with a growing smile. “You _are_ very headstrong. You’d just better not die before me. I don’t know how I’d handle it.”

Stan blinks hard, eyes flicking away momentarily before settling back on Ford’s. They look distant and defensive, something Ford hasn’t seen from him in a long time. He doesn’t like it.

“And you think _I’d_ do any better? Do you know how scared I was when I opened the portal that you’d never come back through? T- that you’d been killed on the other side and I’d never see you again? I love you, Stanford. If I lost you I… I’d-” Stan cuts himself off, voice wavering, eyes glassy.

Without asking or hesitating, Ford pulls him in tight. He lets Stan fight off his shame as he does the same, sharing the now very-real fear of losing the one they held most dear. They weren’t getting any younger. It was only a matter of time before nightmares became reality. All they could do now was enjoy the moments they shared before it was too late. Living while constantly worried for the future was no life at all.

Sniffling like he’s doing no such thing, Stan pulls back. He wipes at his eyes, laughing at himself.

“Heh. God, I’m bein’ such a girl. I was tryin’ to make you feel better, not make us both feel like shit.”

Ford shakes his head slowly, still holding Stan’s shoulders like his life depends on him. Ford’s no longer sure that that’s not true.

“Don’t apologize for becoming emotional. I’m just glad you feel the same. I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want you to feel sad. I’ve been mopey enough today for the both of us.”

“Ya got that right. I was tryin’ to pull you out of it but you seemed dead set on feelin’ like hell.”

“Is that why you kept hitting on me? To distract me from my thoughts?”

“Duh. I’m not a _complete_ horndog.” Stan smiles, rubbing Ford’s shoulder. “I knew sex would make ya feel better, but you weren’t takin’ the hint.”

Now Ford feels even more ashamed. Stan had been fighting all day to be let into his lovers mangled mind and fix what’s wrong. He was only trying to help. As usual, Ford fucked it all up. Some things never change. 

“Oh. S-sorry. I didn’t know. I thought you were just feeling particularly amorous.”

Stan shrugs like he’s used to it, which he likely is. 

“Doesn’t matter. I talked you into it eventually, that’s what counts.” Stan looks him over curiously. “So, do ya feel better?”

Ford thinks that over. The answer is surprisingly simple.

“Yes, actually.” His lips form a smile as he sees Stan’s do the same. “Heh. Apparently you know me better than I know myself. I was actually fearful that being intimate would make everything worse.”

Ford doesn’t know why he had been afraid to let Stan be close. As though he didn't already adore him more than anyone. As though it were possible to love Stan any more than he already did. As though he hadn't already let him inside more than he ever has anybody else.

Stan gives him a look which Ford has to agree with. Even _he_ knows how backwards that sounds. Though he personally finds it to be a rare occurrence, Ford was… less than right.

“Wait, are you admitting you were wrong? You, Stanford Pines, the smartest guy ever, was _wrong_? Stop the fuckin’ presses, this should be a headline.” Stan pushes at his shoulder, expression airy and tone teasing.

“Perhaps. In a roundabout way,” Ford admits begrudgingly. “Don’t dwell on it.”

Stan chuckles lightly, firework booms barely recognized anymore.

“Damn, I shoulda recorded that.”

Ford chuckles to himself, waving Stan away.

“Yes, yes. I admit I was wrong, but there’s nothing we can do about that now.”

Ford doesn’t even mind admitting the mistake. More than anything he’s just happy to see Stan look so pleased, even if it was at his own expense.

He turns his attention back to the fireworks with a lightened heart, show close to being over. They had missed almost all of it. It was a good thing Independence Day was just around the corner, and that was a very special day for them both.

While watching the colors spray across the black sky, Ford doesn’t notice the way Stan watches him like he’s much more fascinating than the show.

“Ya know,” starts Stan, beyond hesitant.

“Yes?”

“N-nothin’.”

“No, tell me,” urges Ford, turning Stan’s way. Sitting under the blanket, arm wrapped around Stan’s torso, Ford felt secure. He’s sad that Stan must not be feeling the same.  

“I said no,” huffs Stan.

Ford’s eyes bore into Stan, his brother becoming visibly uncomfortable. Adjusting his position, Stan starts to metaphorically sweat at the intensity. Eventually he caves.

“Yeesh. Fine. I was gonna tell you I had a funeral for a fuckin’ _wax figure_ of you and I broke down, so I sure as hell don’t ever wanna deal with the real thing."

Ford frowns, extremely confused.

"...You _what_?"

Stan sighs at the stars, sight eventually lying heavily over Ford.

“It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. Mabel made a wax statue that looked just like us. One of the other figures was possessed and chopped his head off, and when I thought about that happening to you, I-” Stan’s voice dies in the harsh summer air, body becoming rigid with repressed pain.

Ford takes a stubbled cheek in his hand, kissing Stan’s suddenly dry mouth. Brows furrow with emotion. Stan watches, lips moving slowly over his. As Ford releases his mouth, Stan lets out a long sigh.

“Listen, babe; I love you, okay? Pushing me away isn’t gonna change how I feel, and it isn’t gonna change how _you_ feel either. Carin’ about someone doesn’t make you weak, it makes you strong. No matter what Dad used ta tell us.”

Stan pauses, letting those words of wisdom settle in.

“Making memories is all you can do in life, Ford. They're there to push ya forward when the people you love are no longer around. We can’t cheat death, but we can enjoy life while it’s here.”

Looking at Stan, light cascading over his blanketed body, Ford can't help but smile. Here was a memory he would never forget.

Stan looks away, hand lightly stroking Ford’s naked side.

Ford's not sure what he did to deserve this man. Maybe the world had made a mistake and didn't realize its error yet. Ford didn’t dare question his luck in case. Underneath it all, Ford was happy, and it was all thanks to Stan.  

Gazing at his lover watching the fireworks, booms connect to Ford's pounding heart. Feeling the loving arm around his waist and grounding him, Ford was happy. Truly happy. No one could take away the adoration and strong desire for this man. Not even himself.

He leans his head against Stan's, happy to feel him do the same. Knowing his lover was there through it all was more than enough. Nothing had to be said. They might not have much time. Or they could have decades. No one could ever know. All Ford knew for sure was that the man beside him would fight for him. Always. That had never changed. It never would. Ford was no longer worried about losing the one he loves. Now he knows it's not how much time you have left together, it's how you spend it.

Sitting so close, bodies flushed and arms wrapped around each other, Ford feels a stronger pull than he's ever felt to anyone before. Now Ford knows his thoughts were correct in one aspect, though thankfully, at the same time, not at all. Being close, watching fireflies dance in the woods as high above colors boom and spray, strong and bold smell of fireworks filling their nostrils, Ford knows he'll want Stan glued to his hip forever. He had already adored time spent with his twin, but now...

Ford glances at Stan, finding the view reigning supreme over everything else. His hand slides up and down Stan's tacky side, his brother peering over with a curious expression. When their eyes meet, Stan rewards him with a small, genuine smile.

"You're not gettin' horny again already, are ya?"

Ford snorts at the teasing tone as Stan gives him a playful wink.

"I wish."

_If only_. To be young enough to do so again would be a godsend.

Seeing Ford's breezy outlook, Stan's lips upturn even higher.

"We always have tomorrow, ya know.”

The words jumble in Ford’s head, falling and sticking to his throat. Instead of hurting, now Ford felt pure excitement, all because of Stan. For the first time, tomorrow didn’t seem all that daunting.

Stan's thumb starts rubbing tiny circles over his side, grounding and sweet. Ford lets the sensation wash over him. He could get used to this.

Ford looks up as the fireworks start shooting off more erratically, painting unique, vibrant pictures across the sky. The finale is about to begin. Anxiety pummels his heart.

He's not ready.

Ford doesn't want this to end.

He nervously glances over at the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with, however long that may be.

Everything stops.

Ford watches as a pink and blue firework explode together in the night sky, ashes falling toward the ground as one in death’s unity. Fear is gulped away as Stan squeezes his side, letting Ford know he’s not alone. His perfect match will fall with him when the time is right. Ford isn’t alone in this. He never was.  

He watches his lover with a slack expression, chest painfully tight. In the darkness of night Stan lights up his world more than any gunpowder spark ever could. It’s then that he realizes that Stan is right. He’s always right. They don’t have forever. What they have is now. Tonight, Stan isn’t going anywhere. And tomorrow…

_Tomorrow_ , Ford repeats in a happy buzz, nuzzling into Stan and watching the fireworks display nearing its inevitable end. _I like the sound of that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a birthday fic for these two that takes place on the Fourth of July, but I'm so busy right now it won't be finished for quite a while. Sorry! Also, Happy Summerween.


End file.
